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\ 1 H 


























THE STRENGTH 
OF THE WEAK 


MAY DIXON THACKER 



BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 

NEW YORK 
1910 


19 10 


COPYRIGHT 
By 

BROADWAY PUBLISHING CO. 


CC!.A2?8515 


CONTENTS 


Book I. 

CHAPTER 

I. A Victory . 



PAGE 

• 5 

IL 

Strategy 



. 27 

III. 

A Challenge 



• 49 

IV. 

The First Storm 



. 67 

V. 

A Surprise 



. 80 

VI. 

A Law of Nature 



. 92 

VII. 

Her Own Place 



• 113 

VIII. 

A Cruel Charge 



. 125 

IX. 

The Power of Love 



. 144 

X. 

A Drop of Blood 



. 156 


Book II. 


I. 

The New Home . 

• 173 

II. 

A Covered Trail 

. 194 

III. 

Gathering Clouds 

. . 208 

IV. 

Confusion .... 

. . 221 

V. 

“Knavery’s Plain Face” 

. 235 

VI. 

A Feeler .... 

. 253 

VII. 

In the Shadow of a Fog 

. 261 

VIII. 

The Mass Meeting 

. 269 

IX. 

A Confession 

. 285 

X. 

Comfort .... 

. 299 

XL 

An Awakening . . .. 

^ K 307 


4 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER 


PAGE 

XIL 

Love 

, 

• 315 

XIII. 

A Naked Truth . 

, , 

• 330 

XIV. 

An Unequal Battle 

• 

. 341 


Book III. 


I. 

Triumph 

. 361 

II. 

Violets and Jonquils . 

• , • -379 

III. 

Sanctuary 

. . . 383 

IV. 

A Conquest . . 

. 396 

V. 

Success 

• 405 

VI. 

The Heart’s Secret 

. 416 

VII. 

A Broken Pedestal 

. 426 

VIII. 

The Second Storm 

• 435 

IX. 

The Larger Vision 

• 447 


The Strength of the Weak 


CHAPTER I 

A VICTORY 


46 


V^HAT! Dreaming? You, too, Douglas!’' 

^ ^ He did not see her until she was close 
upon him and a light hand touched his arm. He 
turned quickly ; the soft twilight glow fell full upon 
her; the noble lines of her face and figure were 
drawn fine and strong against a background of shad- 
ows. His keen, blue eyes regarded her intently. 
What a magnificent woman she was ! 

With a characteristic gesture, he squared his 
broad shoulders, threw aside the end of his cigar, 
pulled down his vest and settled his well-groomed 
body comfortably in his clothes. 

‘‘There is an irresistible charm about the old, 
isn’t there?” he answered carelessly. “This is my 
first visit to Virginia, my first contact with South- 
ern people. I feel as if I had been transplanted into 
a new world ; and the sensation is not an unpleasant 
one.” 

He laughed a low chuckle, then spread out his 
hands in a sweeping gesture. 

“I did not know that along the Atlantic coast 
such a spot could be found — that is so antiquated, 

[5] 


C6e ©trengtf) 

so apart from our world of life and progress,” he 
went on, as they turned and began walking down 
the sloping lawn which led from the old manor 
house to the beach. "'What a stimulus to fancy, 
to dreaming! It would enrich the imagination of 
the most practical mind.” 

They paused; he threw back his head, inhaling 
long, deep breaths of the sweet, salt air. 

"Aha, Douglas,” her laugh rang out over the 
clear twilight. "‘What a pity I awakened you! I 
waited purposely, to give you time!” She looked 
at him and broke out in fresh merriment. ""I can 
see arrayed behind you, — the long line of solemn 
ghost faces of your prim, Puritan ancestors, — • 
laughing in derision at their descendant, — caught in 
the maze of a romantic Muse !” 

He looked at her narrowly. ""What whimsical 
idea possessed you to ask me to come down here?” 

""Have you forgotten?” she said, archly. 

""I understood that you were to answer a vital 
question I have been propounding for twelve 
months. But — why here — when it could as easily 
have been spoken in your own drawing-room at 
home ?” 

She came up close to him. ""You are not sorry, — 
are you?” 

""The excuse is — flimsy ! There's something back 
of it; there always is, — with you. But, I confess, 
— I am rather fascinated. Only, — the quiet, the 
romantic beauty of — all this, confuses me. And 
,[ 6 ] 


Df tht S^eak 

— I am in a hurry! I’ve got to go back to-mor- 
row.” 

She laughed. *‘What an ardent lover you are!” 

“My ardour has stood the test of one year’s 
persistent, fruitless endeavor. What more can a 
woman want? Now — it has got to end ” 

“You — ^you’ve been dreaming ” 

“Life holds little place for the dreamer,” he 
interrupted, “in this wide world now, — there are 
only you and I — and the future. I want my an- 
swer!” 

With the abrupt swerving of his mind to the 
practical purpose of his trip, his eyes, resting on 
the quiet, unfamiliar country scene, did not notice 
a sudden startled light flash over her face, and that 
her long, white hand trembled as it held in place 
a silken scarf about her bare shoulders. 

They were walking leisurely along the smooth 
beach toward a cluster of tall pines on the edge of 
the lawn, which stood out against a glowing sky 
in the fast-gathering twilight. A monotonous 
note from a catbird came from the shadow of the 
pines, like the note of a thin passing bell. 

“My dear,” he began, brushing an imaginary 
speck from off the sleeve of his dress coat, “I have 
come a long journey to hear the shortest, sweetest 
word that ever fell from a woman’s lips. Don’t 
you think,” he continued, turning suddenly and fac- 
ing her, “that we have trifled long enough?” 

As he spoke in half badinage, he heard the quick 
intaking of her breath. She threw the scarf over 
her head and glanced at him with an anxious look. 

[7] 


Cfje ©treugtfi 

'"Douglas,’’ she began, a slight tremor in her 
voice, ""I cannot be your wife, — just yet.” 

He looked at her with obstinate confidence, and 
yet with a puzzled expression of the strong man 
whose attitude of mind does not shift easily. 

Julia Farwell was a beautiful woman, with a 
certain intellectual fineness of feature that is rare 
and complex in origin. Her first youth was pass- 
ing; her face and form had the ripeness of her 
thirtieth year; the contour of her neck and shoul- 
ders was more assertive than dependent. Her 
heavy black hair grew low over a perfect forehead ; 
her nose was as straight and clear cut as that of a 
cameo, while about her mouth, despite its swift 
smile and sweetness, there was an indefinable hard- 
ness of line and droop, when in repose. 

He gazed at her uncertainly. ""I don’t under- 
stand ” 

“Ah, — but you will understand, Douglas,” she 
interrupted eagerly, clasping her hands to conceal 
their trembling, “you must understand! It means 
so much to me!” 

“Is it of light moment to either of us ?” he asked 
somewhat impatiently. ""Oh, come, Julia, — say 
what you’ve got to say. There’s no aptitude for 
drifting in my makeup. If there’s anything to meet 
— meet it ! Meet it fairly and squarely in the open, 
— meet it at once! I abhor mystery and intrigue! 
You have put me off for twelve months, and now, — 
I want you to be my wife, at once! I need you. 
You are not so cold or so dense a woman that you 
cannot understand. This thing must be settled, 
[ 8 ] 


Df the (KOtealt 

definitely, finally, — and that, right now! We have 
wasted too much of our lives already!” 

Wasted! Yes, — it was just as she had feared. 
Was there ever a man since the beginning of time 
who would take a woman^s work seriously, if it 
conflicted with his own selfish purposes? 

They had reached the old wooden stile, which 
led from the open stretch of sand and beach into 
a little graveyard enclosed in an iron fence. Shak- 
ing out his carefully folded silken handkerchief, 
he brushed the dust from off the step. She lifted 
her dainty top skirt and sat down, the filmy folds 
and numerous ruffles trailing away in little flutters 
about her feet. 

She placed her elbow on her knee and leaned her 
head on her hand. It was impossible for him to 
interpret either her expression or attitude, — and 
her face, framed in the delicate lace, was half 
turned from him. 

''You think that it is not fair to ask you to wait 
longer, — and yet, Douglas, — I must ask you to wait 
just one year more.” 

"Why do you do this?” he asked curtly. 

She felt his penetrating eyes full upon her, and 
forced herself to meet them with a smile. She 
was sure of herself, — sure of her power over him, 
and yet there was a shrinking, perhaps because the 
force of her own nature recognized in him a simi- 
lar opposing one. 

"Marriage is not a matter of romance,” she re- 
plied. "Love must be at the bottom, of course, — • 
but married life is made up of a thousand prosaic 

[9] 


C6c Sittengtl) 

details, where weightier matters than sentiment and 
passion decide the course of things.” 

He sprang to his feet, thrust his hands into his 
pockets, and stood confronting her. 

‘'Have you brought me down here to listen to a 
treatise on Philosophy?” he asked brusquely. “I 
am not a fool, Julia, — and I am not a child !” 

She looked at him, — at the obstinate downward 
trend of the brow, at the narrowing gaze of the 
eyes, signalling mutiny to the woman who knew 
him so well, — knew him as an instrument of large 
pattern, composed of many different pieces; she 
must play upon them all, tuning her own note to 
meet his peculiar harmony. With a second inquir- 
ing glance, her nimble wits returned : 

“You make it very hard for me. Sit down, 
Douglas, — do not be so impatient.” 

As he did not move, she clasped her hands about 
her knees and continued : “One year ago, — I sat 
in this very spot, and read your letter, in which 
you first asked me to be your wife. You know my 
decision then, for I wrote to you that night and I 
told you of my work. I elaborated to you my 
forming plans, — explained in words that I felt 
were almost an inspiration, my hopes and ambi- 
tions. I felt lifted into a clearer air; my brain and 
heart were fired with a great purpose ! I described 
to you my surroundings to the minutest detail, — • 
interspersing here and there words of endearment 
and regret. I asked you to wait for me, — do you 
not remember?” 

“I have waited,” he responded more gently, with 

[lo] 


flDf tbt mtak 

that air of quiet, unexaggerated passion which be- 
came him so well and which suggested rich re- 
serves. 

‘‘Listen, Douglas,'* she interrupted, as he was 
about to continue, “you feel that you have waited 
long enough? Am I unreasonable to ask for one 
more year ? You say you need me, — but the strands 
of love and self-love are difficult to unravel.” 

His face flushed, but she gave no heed. “I have 
this work, — it is a sublime calling, — the uplifting 
and helping of those who are lowest in the scale 
of human life. Is it not more noble and far- 
reaching in its issue than any life can be, if lived 
within the narrow circle of a home and husband ? 

“Ah, — how it has broadened and expanded itself! 
I have worked hard, — but I have not quite finished. 
I am playing to win, Douglas, — remember, always 
to win! I must reach a fulfillment of this dream!” 

In her excitement, she, too, had risen ; the color 
mounted her pale cheeks, and her slender throat 
quivered as the lace scarf fell unheeded from her 
shoulders. “It is good to feel one’s power! To 
bend and shape contrary forces and bring them 
into your service! To see things that were impos- 
sible yesterday become possible to-day, — and by 
to-morrow they will be met and conquered!” 

“Your words have a fine, heroic ring in them,” 
he commented. But even under the spell of her 
enthusiasm his practical mind came back abruptly to 
the personal ground. 

“And so — ^Julia,” he continued, looking curiously 
into her flushed face, “you feel that you are des- 
[II] 


tined for a higher course, born for a larger sphere? 
You feel that your experiences have educated you 
above both primal instincts and trivial interests? 
That the largeness of your power demands a wide 
field? That you have something more valuable to 
contribute to the progress of mankind, than per- 
chance you could find in 3 . — home and husband? 
That nothing I could do for you would compensate 
for the chagrin of ruling — only in small things! 
You feel that this career of yours, after the years 
of work you have put upon it, has the stronger 
claim upon you?” 

“Yes — yes,” she said eagerly, almost breathlessly, 
noting the peculiar animation in his face as he spoke 
with reckless gayety. “But remember, Douglas, — 
I only ask for one year longer.” 

He frowned. “Tell me, — what do you mean to 
(do ? What are your plans ?” 

“Ah, — it is too big a subject for a few moments* 
conversation 1” she answered. “You know that girl 
• — Maggie? I’ve written you about her; you saw 
her on the porch as we drove up. My hopes all 
center in her now. I have a definite object before 
me, — and one year more will show what the final 
outcome will be. I mean to prove, by an actual 
experiment with her, that a Negro girl of average 
intelligence is capable of assimilating a higher edu- 
cation. Think, Douglas, — what a blessing it will 
be ! Think of the wasted lives in a place like Clam 
Creek 1” 

“Wasted! And you would have them leave their 
homes ?” 


[ 12 ] 


Df tttc meaK 

“Such homes, — certainly !” 

His lip curled. “Who will replace them? Who 
will be the servants here in the South, — if you edu- 
cate them to be ladies? If they are good servants, 
can make good bread, and do good washing, — in 
Heaven’s name, Julia, let them alone! There’s 
more demand these days for good cooks, — than 
there is for poems or novels or any form of literary 
expression.” 

“All things must adjust themselves,” she an- 
swered calmly. 

“No!” he replied stubbornly. “I disapprove of 
the whole business! At best, it would be a thank- 
less job! Why waste your energies and this pre- 
cious year upon it? Good Lord! This Negro 
question, — to spend a whole lifetime on it would 
be ridiculous, — much less one or two years of one 
woman’s life! It would be a whole life of intelli- 
gent effort against perpetual, brutal resistance! 
There will be no battle won, — nothing settled, noth- 
ing definite! All the education you can cram into 
their thick skulls will end in stupid, barbarous 
treachery !” 

He looked about him now with critical eyes, a 
heavy frown wrinkling his brow. He remembered 
vaguely that his sister, Louise, had told him some- 
thing about Julia sending several colored girls from 
the country to school at Dalton. A rabbit peeped 
out at him from between the crumbling walls of 
an old moss-grown ice-house, then scurried away. 
A green lizard glided from under the blackened 
pine needles, touching the end of his patent leather 

[13] 


Cfte ^ttcnstb 

shoe, as it disappeared into the long- grass. It was 
unpleasantly forced upon him, as he saw the ruins, 
the shiftless waste, — the antiquated methods applied 
to farm and household, — that here she had found 
an outlet for this reforming mania of hers, as broad 
as her wildest dreams, whose possibilities were over- 
powering for him to contemplate! The penetrat- 
ing light in his clear blue eyes, and the firm lines of 
his chin and brow suggested a masculine force, 
however, that would brook no small resistance. 

‘‘S-so! I see — now,” he spoke, with quiet delib- 
eration. ‘'You wanted me to come down here to 
show me all these picturesque, appealing ruins; 
you hoped to work up in me a senseless enthusiasm 
that would hold me for another year, in a state of 
meekness and patience! Well, — I don’t enthuse! 
You’ve got to give up this career business ! Leave 
it for some empty-hearted, empty-headed woman to 
fill up her dull life with! Let those work for the 
public, — who have none of their own! What we 
want, Julia, is life , — ^life at first hand, — ^vital, per- 
sonal life! A cause is a cold, clammy substitute for 
a warm, human love!” 

Had she been a woman of malleable material, 
the forceful logic of his reasoning would have con- 
vinced her, aside from any feeling of sentiment. 
She was not the one, however, to recede before the 
fear of battle; with regard to her own ideas, she 
would neither yield, modify, nor concede. She saw 
that her victory would demand a struggle, — but at 
the thought of contest her eyes flashed and her 
delicate nostrils quivered. 

[14] 


£Df ttt mtau 

“What are personal gratifications and personal 
ends balanced against the advancement of universal 
happiness? Have you forgotten, Douglas, that our 
fathers were intense Abolitionists, — that they gave 
their life blood for this cause? It is a fearful re- 
sponsibility, — that we have shamefully neglected. 
Have we carried on the work, which they began in 
blood r’ 

Her voice rang out like a clarion call to victory. 

“You wish to emulate the deeds of your ances- 
tors?^’ he said quietly, with the faintest ghost of a 
smile playing about the stern lips. “Do you forget, 
— ^that our mothers and our grandmothers gave 
themselves, without question or condition, into the 
care and keeping of someone else, — and that their 
watchword was — duty?” 

“Duty?” she repeated. “Does not the word 
usually mean what other people think we ought to 
do?” 

“Other people are often better judges than our- 
selves ” 

“But less well-informed,” she quickly retorted. 

He threw back his hair from his forehead with 
an impatient gesture. “Why torture yourself with 
this nonsense? You are in the toils of an idea, — 
but none of its righteous glow suffuses me! I am 
not struggling to be consistent, — I am striving to 
be happy! After all, — that is the end and aim of 
life, — isn’t it? 

“These Southern people are happy, — why disturb 
them? You can see it in their faces, — even the 
little dirty Negro urchins we saw in Clam Creek 

[15] 


Ciie @tren0t{) 

looked happy. Philanthropy, itself, is a form of 
selfishness, — isn’t it? If you want to do things, — ■ 
reform me! Establish a home for me, — show me 
the beauty and glory of this old meddlesome world ! 
I am selfish, — narrow ” 

“I am in no mood for jesting, Douglas,” she 
interrupted; ‘‘look around you! My father and 
yours helped to free the slaves, — and what have we 
done for them? The rags of slavery stripped from 
them only revealed their nature and helplessness. 
One cannot appreciate these desolate conditions un- 
less they see them for themselves. That’s why I 
asked you to come here with me. The Southern 
people, black and white, — are suffering for a stan- 
dard around which to rally.” 

“And you — propose to raise that standard?” he 
asked laconically. “It is not reasonable, Julia, that 
you and I can understand the situation down here, 
— any more than that laughing girl we saw on the 
wharf, — >what did you say her name is — Margy 

y> 

She laughed. “Margy, — yes. But you will have 
to soften your Northern brogue for these Southern 
names.” 

“Margy, — Margy,” he repeated, his eyes follow- 
ing the sloping lawn until they rested in dreamy 
revelry upon the Manor house, with the two mag- 
nolia trees at each side of the porch. “What a 
name! It takes one back a hundred years! One 
can see a — Margy at her spinning wheel, — or bend- 
ing over those old-fashioned flowers, — or standing 
between the large porch pillars, waiting for her 
[i6] 


mt ttfe meau 

Cavalier to come dashing down the highway.” He 
stopped abruptly and paused a moment. ‘‘But — • 
imagine her, — studying social conditions in a New 
England village. Ha ! Ha !” 

“One cannot imagine Margy studying anything 
— anywhere,” she retorted. 

“She could understand them just about as well 
as you, Julia, with all your intellectual prowess, 
can understand these Southern people. They know 
their own lives better than you or I can tell them. 
They have a quick intelligence. They do not need 
illumination from any vagrant excursionist, — for 
that is what you are, with all your theories and 
plans. Leave them alone, — for they are happy. 
Can all the learned philosophy of your Abolition- 
ist grandfather advance one whit further than the 
world-old creed, — that life is the pursuit of hap- 
piness ?” 

“Granted that that is true, Douglas,” she an- 
swered somewhat wearily, “is there no right or 
wrong? Why does your friend, Alfred Mayer, get 
drunk? In pursuit of happiness? To break through 
the limitations of self for a time, — to soar to the 
stars, — to see beauty in the filth and mire of this 
dirty world, — ought he to be disturbed? Every 
form of sin is a striving for happiness, isn’t it? 
But along the line of wrong tendency. Napoleon, 
Maggie’s brother, stole my watch last Summer. 
Why did he do it? In search of happiness, — ought 
he to be disturbed ?” 

“Julia, — in the — name — of — mercy!” He spoke 
with slow, measured words. “What — rot! Put 

[17] 


Cl)e %itttnstb 

these ideas out of your head! I want a home, — I 
want a wife, — I want to live 1 While I was waiting 
for you, I hoped that you had asked me to come 
down here, — because you want to live here, — to 
take me out of the rut in which I have existed and 
in which my father and grandfather travelled. In- 
stead of that, — ^you ask me to go back and take up 
an imaginary obligation, — that my great-grandfa- 
ther left upon me. Stuff and nonsense! They 
chose their course, — let us choose ours ! I am 
tired of the life to which I was born : the rattling, 
rumbling bustle and noise of a great city. Tired 
living as my father lived in contentment, — tramping 
up and down numbered streets and avenues. By 
Jove, — I would like to be a Virginia country gen- 
tleman myself, and grow old in peace with my 
children around me ’’ 

“Douglas,'* she interrupted suddenly, “remem- 
ber, — I only ask for one year." 

“I won’t wait, — it’s utter nonsense!’’ he flashed 
back. 

“Must my work, the labor of these years, all go 
for naught?’’ she pleaded patiently. “Am I but 
one of those poor creatures who want to be things, — 
do things, — who have grasped a large vision of life, 
only to be stopped short and balked, because — God 
pity them, — they are women! How can I allow 
the hopes and ambitions, fostered within me all 
these years, to step down and give place to the con- 
trolling egotism of one man? Will you not help me, 
Douglas? Give me one year, — that’s all I ask!’’ 

He was struck by the unaccustomed note of plead- 

[i8] 


SDf tfie meaK 

ing in her voice; she leaned toward him, the lines 
of her face tense and eager as she said : 

‘Tor marriage ends a woman’s career, Doug- 
las ” 

“Or begins it!” With these little words he felt 
that he had completed the proof of his argument, 
with the finality of a spring lock snapping into 
place. 

They stood for a moment poised, confronting 
each other. He felt as never before the mysterious, 
baffling charm of her personality, which, strange 
to say, was oftener repellent than otherwise, and 
yet — attracted again and again. Even a chance 
observer, he thought, could they see her thus, would 
know that the issues of her life would be profoundly 
emotional in their fulfillment. 

“Why should a woman want to do a man’s work 
in the world?” he continued. “Can a man do a 
woman’s work? One is as capable of exchange as 
the other! Tor a woman’s greatest gain is to be a 
wife, — except to be a mother,’ ” he quoted. 

“H-ha!” The little word came out in a quick, 
involuntary gasp; her face blanched, and her fin- 
gers fumbled nervously with the jewels at her 
throat. 

As she started to speak, however, their attention 
was suddenly attracted by a movement of the foli- 
age in the shadows behind them. They turned 
quickly. The figure of a slender girl, dressed in 
high-waisted, quaint costume of a century ago, 
seemed to have risen from among the crumbling 

[19] 


CIbe ®ttctt0t6 

headstones of the old graveyard, and was advanc- 
ing toward them. 

'‘See, — what I have found!” The next moment 
they were looking into a pair of wide-stretched gray 
eyes, fringed with long, curly lashes, and misty 
with unshed tears, as she held out her clasped hands 
toward them. Douglas leaned forward until his 
head almost touched the gold of her hair. 

“It’s a — bird, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, — a poor little bluebird, with a broken 
wing.” 

They stood irresolute. “Is there anything that 
can be done?” Julia finally asked. 

“Something must be done. I am carrying it to 
Mammy, — she will know.” 

She hesitated for a moment, and, putting up one 
hand, smoothed back a refractory tendril of her 
hair, which the light wind was blowing in ripples 
of disorder. 

“You are — Mr. Lloyd, — aren’t you? I’m Margy, 
— I guess you know.” 

“Oh, I — I beg your pardon,” Julia exclaimed, 
alive at last to conventional requirements. 

“I did not know,” Douglas answered, smiling at 
her; “if you had said that you were a fairy prin- 
cess or a — forest nymph, — I should not have been 
surprised.” 

“Dear me I” she exclaimed, the pink of her dress 
spreading itself over her face and up to the roots 
of her hair, as she followed his admiring eyes down 
the rounded curves of her figure. “I — forgot! 
You must think me very silly ! I was going through 

[ 20 ] 


SDf tfie mtnk 

some old trunks in the garret, — and I came across 
this dress. It belonged to my great-grandmother. 
I always did love to dress up and play lady.” 

Her face rippled with merriment, — then sobered 
suddenly, as she raised the bird and stroked- its 
feathers with her cheek. *'This — poor — little — 
bird! How could anyone be so cruel? And he 
has a family, too, — five babies, — oh, what will be- 
come of them? I can’t stand it, — I can’t stand 
to see those little baby birds die, — starve to death !” 

The subtle harmony of her voice and the low, 
mellow, vibrant tones thrilled her listeners. Doug- 
las felt that the rich, girlish soprano was full of 
depth and power and tenderness that he had never 
before heard in a woman’s voice. 

‘Tive babies,” he mused, — “a large family.” 

She looked up quickly. “Do you think so? I 
should think it would be grand to have a large — 
live — family. When I’m married I want a big 
family, — it’s dreadful to be lonesome.” 

He remembered what he had heard of her, — 
her people, generations back, lying in the little 
graveyard, and a feeling of pity and tenderness 
rose in his heart toward her. He looked at her with 
awakened interest. He was conscious that this little 
figure by his side bore a proud name, — that she 
represented something of her country’s past, — that 
by right of birth and heritage she occupied, with 
unique dignity, a high place in an aristocracy, 
which traces its prestige back to the royal courts 
of England. 


[ 21 ] 


C6e ^txtnstb 

' She bowed to them with an old-fashioned cour- 
tesy, with outspread skirts of rich brocade. 

pleased to have met you, — Mr. Douglas 
Lloyd, — Miss Farwell has told us all about you.” 

“So?” he queried, with rising inflection, looking 
questioningly into her upturned face. What a sweet, 
winsome girl! How young and fresh she was! 

“The boat was very late, I guess,” she said, as 
she moved from them, still holding the bird with 
tender care. 

“No,” Julia answered; “we did not hurry. I 
wanted to show Mr. Lloyd something of this — ah ! 
— ^beautiful country, — we drove around through 
Clam Creek.” 

Margy's eyes opened wide, and she burst into a 
peal of laughter. 

“Beautiful country! Clam Creek! Things must 
have changed since I last saw Clam Creek. But I 
must be going.” She turned, fondling the bird 
and pressing her cheek against it. “Mammy will 
know what to do. Nothing at Glen Haven ever 
suffers if she can make them happy. She’ll take 
care of the whole family — somehow.” 

“Happiness, then, — is the keynote of your scheme 
of life?” he asked, with a glance at Julia. 

“Scheme of life?” Margy repeated, a little twist 
of a frown coming between her brows. “I don’t 
know what that is! We don’t have a scheme of 
life, down here. We just live.” 

She turned from them again, and Douglas took 
a step forward. “You haven’t told us — the history 
of this bird,” he said, trying to intercept her. 

[ 22 ] 


ffl)f tbt mtak 

haven’t time now, — I will some day,” she 
called over her shoulder, as she darted back through 
the gloom, the long grass brushing her skirts, the 
air lifting the curls from her forehead. 

A silence came between them; Douglas was the 
first to break it ‘^What a lovely girl!” 

“Do you think so?” Julia replied indifferently. 
“I never thought Margy beautiful. She’s pretty 
and winsome, — but her eyes are too big and — 
starey! It’s generally understood that she will 
marry Robert Norwood, old General Norwood’s 
son. They live at Beechwood, — the next place up 
the river.” 

“S-so,” he replied absently. “Ah, well, Julia, — 
no complexity of standards will ever confuse her! 
They will marry and settle down, — probably with- 
out a cent on earth, — have a large — live — family, — • 
and be happier than the richest magnate on Wall 
Street! Happier, — good Lord!” 

“The lowest form of creative instinct in woman 
is the animal, — the maternal,” she spoke, in a con- 
ciliatory manner that rather jarred upon him. “It 
has always pleased the egotism of man to applaud 
it as the highest, — the one supreme function. His 
reasons are complex, — but they are obvious!” 

His eyes had been resting dreamily on the water; 
suddenly he turned and faced her. 

“Will you marry me now, — at once ?” 

Her eyes flashed. “You must think that I would 
be — a meek, domestic chattel! That I have no will 
of my own! If that is what you want, — you do 
not want me.” 


[23] 


Cfte S>trengtti 

From under half-closed lids his eyes were study- 
ing her. In the deepening dusk, a full realization 
of the beauty and majesty of her womanhood came 
to him afresh; involuntarily, however, — there was 
an instinctive recoil at the bluntness of her last 
words. There was a long silence. He knew that 
he was dealing with a driving personality, — and a 
vague, intangible alarm stirred within him. Per- 
haps, — who knows, at that moment, the scales of 
life inclined. 

“You see, Douglas, we women have different 
ways of challenging the future. Oh, — wait a mo- 
ment ” She reached out her hand and placed 

it on his arm, as he turned impatiently to interrupt 
her. He would not let her go on. 

“I’m an ordinary man,” he stated bluntly, “built 
on an ordinary pattern. I want a home and a wife, 
and I’m going to have them!” 

She glanced at him, but his face was in shadow. 
Her quick eye travelled over his erect, stalwart 
form, and a tinge of bitterness came over her. 
There is something cruel, she thought, in a man’s 
physical freedom, — they are so insolently strong and 
self-assured. Yet, intuitively, she felt that he was 
wavering, and kept silent. 

“I’m going to win you, — and drive all this driv- 
elling idiocy out of you, in spite of yourself I” She 
saw the fire of purpose and determination deep in 
his eyes and in the set of his square jaw. “I’ll take 
a week, — I’ll take two, if need be. We’ll stay 
down here and fight it out to a finish, — and then, — - 
we’ll go back together, man and wife!’* 

[24] 


Df the (DiHeait 

He threw his arm over her shoulder and drew 
her to him. His cuff link caught in a string of 
beads that hung suspended from her neck and they 
broke and fell in a shower over her. 

“Look — look what you have done!” But her 
eyes shone ; she was revelling in her victory. After 
all, it had been easy! “You’ll stay two weeks? 
Oh, — how glad I am!” 

He drew back and looked mournfully at the 
broken chain. “What are they? Why do you 
bedeck yourself with festoons of beads, — like an 
Indian squaw? Let them go ” 

She was stooping, bending back the tall grasses 
and picking up the beads as she replied : 

“You know — I told you — there’s a legend in our 
family, that says I had an Indian grandmother,--* 
once upon a time!” 

“Now, — I know I’ll get you! I’ll take you back 
with me, if I have to turn wild man, — and drag 
you off by the hair of your head. Then, — ^your 
maternal ancestor will come to my aid ; all the wild, 
savage blood in you, that lies dormant, will be 
stirred by my bold — bad — daring deed ! Your sur- 
render will be complete, — abject !” 

“Don’t be too sure,” she flashed, with a laugh; 
“this Indian grandmother was never known to give 
in! She always carried her point, — one way or 
another !” 

He dug the tip of his patent leather shoe viciously 
among the dead pine needles. “I can’t fight a 
spook,” he retorted, “but I can a woman of flesh 
and blood, — and that’s what you are.” 

[25] 


CI)e ^tten0tjl) 

They walked back to the house in silence, and she 
left him on the lawn. He lighted a fresh cigar 
and sauntered slowly back and forth, with his hands 
clasped behind him. He felt oppressed, — tired! 

With the delicious aroma of his cigar enveloping 
him, through the long lines of pale, dim smoke 
there seemed to float before him, with sudden start- 
ling vividness, — a pair of wide-stretched gray eyes 
looking into his, — with the twist of a frown be- 
tween them. He heard, in the twilight silence, the 
rich tones of a girlish voice : *'We don’t have a 
scheme of life down here, — we just live.” 


[26] 


s>t tht mtuk 


CHAPTER II 
STRATEGY 

MEAN — just that!” he exclaimed, from the 
depth of an old rustic bench under the shade 
of a crepe-myrtle tree, which stood on the lawn at 
the side of the house. ‘T’m not going! Pve spent 
three days in that God-forsaken hole called Clam 
Creek. I’ve followed you around from one hovel 
to another, through the mud, until my mind as well 
as body rebels with nausea!” 

Julia Farwell and Louise Lloyd looked at him in 
amazement. Julia was fresh in gray tailored suit, 
her white linen shirt waist immaculate and correct. 

Douglas’ stubborn, blue eyes traveled the length 
of her figure. 

‘‘Everything about you, Julia, is always in fault- 
less good taste, — except your fool, philanthropic 
ventures !” he ended impatiently. 

Louise laughed, straightening her hat on her 
fluffy blonde head. “It’s no use arguing with him, 
Julia,” she said. “Douglas always has his own 
way about things.” 

“Oh — do I — do I?” he mocked. Picking up a 
magazine that lay on the bench beside him, he 
turned over its pages carelessly. 

[27] 


Cfte ^ttttxQtb 

am afraid you will be lonely here,” Julia said 
uncertainly. “What will you do?” 

“What will I do?” he repeated slowly, as if to 
himself. “I might make mud pies, — or build sand 
houses, — or — ah — this magazine is only a year and 
two months old, — it can take the place of the morn- 
ing paper !” 

A mulatto girl came around the corner of the 
house carrying a bundle of papers in one hand and 
a box in the other. Douglas scowled at her with 
detached curiosity. She was comely after her kind, 
large, full-bosomed, with a certain defiant, virile 
strength. 

“Ah, here you are, Maggie!” Julia said briskly. 
“I’ll take the box, if Louise will carry these,” as 
she handed the papers to her. “In getting an early 
start like this we can be back by noon to-day. Of 
course,” she went on, turning toward Douglas, “I 
must go. They are expecting me. I will make 
other arrangements for to-morrow.” 

As she was speaking, Douglas caught a glimpse 
of a pink dress, bending over the flower beds in the 
old garden across the lawn. At first he watched it, 
indifferently, — then his eyes slowly kindled, and the 
frown cleared from his face. 

He had exhausted every argument he could think 
of with Julia; his sane reasoning and indignant pro- 
tests had been overthrown by the personal power 
of the woman. He would try other tactics. If 
there was one vulnerable spot in the armour of her 
self-poise and self-assurance, he must find it. Three 
days had slipped by, and he still stood no nearer 

[28] 


SDt tbt jQeaft 

the object of his goal than on the first. With all 
her fine audacity, Julia was a woman, after all, and 
could probably be ruled by simple, human methods, 
more effectually than by argument and reasoning. 

Ah, well! He was far from giving up! He 
would marshal his resources and try strategy to 
break down her walled defences. 

“And you will not come?” she repeated. 

“No.” 

“It is such a glorious day,” sTie lingered, throw- 
ing back her head, her nostrils dilating. 

“Fve no complaint against the weather,” he re- 
marked dryly. “Go on. Don’t bother about me.” 

“But what will you do?” she insisted. 

“I’ll pass the time,” he said, serenely non-com- 
mittal, pulling himself together and rising to his 
feet. “I think I’ll explore that old garden, and 
commune with the spirits of past generations.” 

Julia watched his broad back as he sauntered 
slowly across the lawn, and her quick eye saw the 
flutter of pink among the green foliage. 

“We will walk fast,” she said to Louise, as they 
started dow the lane. 

“I never kne . Douglas to be so hard-headed,” 
Louise remarked. 

“Oh, he’s all right,” Julia smiled, and the smile 
lingered. Had she not divined and accepted Doug- 
las’ character in all its average human weakness 
and selfishness long ago? She loved him passion- 
ately in spite of it, — perhaps, if the truth were 
known, because of it. 

As Douglas was crossing the back lawn, follow- 

[29] 


C6e ^trengt!) 

ing a little path which wound around several half- 
dilapidated outbuildings, the figure of an old negro 
woman appeared in the doorway of a whitewashed 
kitchen. She was enveloped in the folds of a 
checked gingham apron ; her old wrinkled eyes 
looked at him with the mute appeal of an over- 
worked farm animal. 

“De Lawd hab mus-ey!” she ejaculated, as her 
eyes went past him and into the undergrowth of 
the vegetable garden. ‘‘Dem pigs done crawled 
out ’g'in!” 

She brushed some flour from her hands, and, 
picking up a big knotted stick from the side of the 
flat door-stones, started energetically in the direc- 
tion of the garden gate. 

By this time Margy was standing just outside 
the gate, a pink sunbonnet shading her face, her 
arms filled with huge bunches of jonquils. 

^‘Lemme pass, honey,’' she said to her. 

Douglas came up to them. “What’s the trouble? 
Can I help you?” he inquired. 

Mammy Clo turned quickly. 

“It’s jest dem pigs!” she said. ‘Tigs air con- 
trary critters lak sum fo’ks,” she went on, “w’en 
dey know dey got a thing, den dey don’ ca’e much 
about it, — allers hankerin’ fer w’at dey ain’ so 
sure about! Dem pigs know, now, dat dey’ll git 
three good meals a day, ef’n dey stay in de pen an’ 
’have derself ! But dey’ll root out under de fence, 
an’ take chances.” 

“You can hold the gate open,” said Margy. She 
stood by, watching Mammy Clo drive the pigs 

[30] 


©f tbt meak 

back again into the despised pen, while Douglas 
patiently held the ga^e. 

"‘Mammy, please ask Napoleon to hitch up Prince 
Albert to the buggy,” said Margy. “Aunt Nancy 
wants some things from the store, and Mrs. Blair 
asked me to bring her some violets and jonquils, — 
she's going to have a party. I gathered the violets 
before breakfast.” 

“Napoleon ain' here, honey,” Mammy Clo an- 
swered, heavy frowns again wrinkling her fore- 
head. “Mout er known f’um de sight o' co'n 
cakes he et fer breakfast dat he wus supplyin' his- 
se’f fer de day, — I ain' seen 'im sence.” 

Mammy Clo was different from the proverbial 
Southern Mammy in that she was tall and slender, 
and her spare figure lacked even the suggestion of 
the comfortable, lazy rotundity of her sisters. Upon 
her ignorant and inefficient shoulders the burdens 
of the family had fallen heavily. The deep lines 
upon her face were hard and uncompromising, ex- 
cept when her old tired eyes rested upon Margy, 
whom she had waited upon and worshipped from 
the hour of her birth. In this service she had sur- 
rounded her with a watchful, loving care, that chal- 
lenged the very winds of heaven to blow too rough- 
ly upon her. 

“Napoleon is sick,” Maggie spoke up, pausing 
on her way to the kitchen. Lowering a bucket of 
water, she shifted it to the other hand. 

“Hum!” Mammy ejaculated, “how w’ite fo’ks 
kin put up wid dese niggers is mo' den I kin see, — 
but de Lawd knows how dey'd git erlong widout 

[31] 


Cfte ^trengtf) 

’em! Ef ’twarn’t fo* dem pigs, I could hitch up 
fo* you, honey; but dey’ll ruin de garden, ef’n dat 
hole ain’ stopped up, rite away. You, Maggie, — 
how cum you can’ hitch up fo’ Miss Margy?” 

“Hitch up?” Maggie repeated blankly. 

“Let me do it for you,” Douglas volunteered. 

“I don’t like to bother you,” Margy hesitated. 

He laughed easily: “I am only killing time. 
Where is Prince Albert?” 

“He is at the bam, and there’s the buggy,” ex- 
plained Margy, pointing to a mud-spattered vehicle 
under the shade of a tree. “And the harness, — 
where is the harness. Mammy?” she called. 

“Hit’s down at de ba’n,” Mammy shouted back 
from the garden ; “de gemman knows ha’ness w’en 
he sees it, don’t he?” 

Douglas approached the black gaunt old barn, 
whose fallen doors and windows showed it empty 
of horses and hay. He passed two or three tumble- 
down sheds, around which a few chickens cackled 
noisily, until he came to the one closed door at the 
far end. 

“What I don’t know about a horse would fill a 
book,” he said to himself, as he surveyed Prince 
Albert. “He looks — rusty, — a horse ought to be 
combed or curried or something. There doesn’t 
seem to be a man about the place,” he laughed, as 
he placed the bridle over the head of the old ani- 
mal. Prince Albert stood very still and very pa- 
tient, as Douglas adjusted the much-mended har- 
ness. 

“Come on, old fellow, we’ll make a go at it,** 

[32] 


D( tbe ^eak 

he said by way of encourag-ement, as he led him 
out of the barnyard to the buggy. A grim smile 
hovered about his sullen lips. 

“That old Mammy seems to be something of a 
philosopher,” he mused. “Now I can’t go after 
Julia with a big, knotted stick, and beat her back 
into the pen, — but — maybe there are other methods 
just as effective, — I wonder!” 

A few minutes later he was jogging comfortably 
around the curved road to the front porch. Margy 
stood waiting for him; a basket filled with bunches 
of violets in one hand, and a larger one filled with 
jonquils in the other. She had replaced her sun- 
bonnet by a jaunty little sailor. 

“How beautiful!” he exclaimed, standing by her 
side, as she placed the baskets carefully in the back 
of the buggy. 

“Aren’t they pretty?” she said. “You haven’t 
been through the garden, have you? I must show 
you what a dear old garden it is. The Blairs are 
new people,” she chatted on. “Now how many 
violets do you suppose are there?” holding up one 
bunch in her hand and surveying it critically. “Mrs. 
Blair phoned me to bring her one thousand violets 
and five hundred jonquils. Wasn’t that crazy? Do 
you suppose she thought I could count — all these?” 

“One usually buys violets by the hundred,” he 
remarked, “how else could she pay you?” 

“Pay me?” Margy exclaimed, her eyes opening 
wide in astonishment, — a slow flush mounting her 
face. “Why, — oh! — do you suppose she’ll offer to 

[33] 


Cl)e S»tren0t& 

pay me ?” she asked incredulously, a look of fear 
leaping into her eyes. 

‘1 am sure I do not know ; but I should certainly 
judge so.’’ 

‘‘The very idea!” Margy fixed her eyes upon 
him. “How could anyone think we would take 
money for flowers from Glen Haven 1” 

“They are strangers here, aren’t they?” 

“Yes, they are strangers,” she answered, “and 
Yankees, too.” 

Douglas looked at her serious face with ill-con- 
cealed amusement, then he burst into laughter. 

“That explains it!” 

Margy smiled brightly. “Oh, I know all about 
Yankees. Mammy has told me.” She looked at 
him with a mischievous twinkle, arranging the crisp 
folds of her gingham dress about her. 

“Don’t you need some one to open the gates? 
Can’t I go with you?” 

“I can open the gates, all right, — but I would 
be glad to have you, — if you want to come,” she 
added politely. 

Douglas climbed in and gathered the old patched 
lines. 

“Have you any string?” Margy asked suddenly. 
“Mammy told me never to start anywhere without 
plenty of string.” 

“What do you want with string?” 

“It takes string to mend things when they break 
— harness, you know,” she explained. “See if 
there isn’t some under the seat, — she keeps it there.” 

[34] 


Df tit JDQeafe 

She pulled her dress to one side, while Douglas 
fumblingly made search. 

*‘Yes, here it is, — all sizes,” he said, holding up 
a tangled mass of string and cord. 

'That’s all right, then,” said Margy happily, as 
they started down the lane. "Now we can have a 
fine time.” 

They hadn’t gone far before Douglas realized 
the feeling of comfortable security, which the pres- 
ence of that bunch of string under the seat gave to 
him, as he watched the brittle leather harness pull 
and creak. 

He drew a long breath; he had never known 
such a perfect day. There was the smell of earth, 
the fainter smell of unopened buds, and on both 
sides of the lane, apple trees, in indescribable beauty 
of blossom. 

Turning the first curve, they came to where the 
waters from the river backed into the last bend of 
the creek, where the willows grew on the edge. 

"Isn’t that a rowboat I hear?” asked Douglas, 
leaning forward and peering through the thick 
bushes, to where the lap-lap of a rowboat, cau- 
tiously moving about, could be heard. 

"It’s Napoleon,” exclaimed Margy, as, suddenly 
through an opening in the overhanging trees, they 
came into full view. 

"A-hum!” said Margy, "what would Mammy 
say? Is the fishing good to-day?” raising her voice. 

Napoleon turned his swathy countenance toward 
her, and answered in unruffled calm; 

"P’utty good.” 


[35] 


Cfie ©trengtfi 

“Maggie said you were sick this morning?” 

“I wus, — dis mo’ning.” 

“I hope you are feeling better now,” returned 
Margy pleasantly. 

“Sum bette’,” he replied, drawing in his line and 
reaching for a fresh bait. 

“Mammy says she doesn’t see what we are all 
coming to,” said Margy, as they left Napoleon and 
his sport behind them. “Napoleon doesn’t seem to 
understand — about work.” 

“It appears not,” Douglas replied dryly. “How 
far is it to the store?” he asked. 

“It’s only about two miles, after we get to the 
big road. And then it’s two miles farther to Gray 
Rock, the Blair place.” 

“Doesn’t that road go through Clam Creek?” 
Douglas inquired, indicating a hardly distinguish- 
able lane, leading around the head of the creek. 
He stopped Prince Albert, waiting for her to reply. 

“Yes, — but it’s an awful road, full of rocks in 
some places and mud in others. And it’s lots 
farther.” 

“You aren’t in a hurry, are you?” he inquired. 

She seemed puzzled for a moment, then her face 
cleared. 

“No, indeed,” she laughed. “I’m very stupid. 
Of course we’ll go through Clam Creek. But it’s 
funny” — she turned toward him — “that you didn’t 
go with Miss Farwell to-day.” 

He drove on in silence, smiling to himself. 

“Do you always do everything Robert wants you 
to?” he inquired. 


[36] 


2Df tbt meafe 

She started, — frowned again; then her clear, 
young laugh rang out. “Oh, — yes, indeed,’! she an- 
swered primly; “always!” 

Douglas steadied the wabbling dashboard with 
one foot, while they jogged over the rocks. 

“You and Aunt Nancy live alone?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Margy answered. “Mammy Clo and 
Napoleon and Maggie used to live in the little house 
by the kitchen. Napoleon left first; he said he must 
go where he could get better wages, so he lives 
with Uncle Lee at Auburn, — but he lends him to 
us, whenever we need him. And Maggie, — Miss 
Farwell sends Maggie to school, you know.” 

“So I understand.” 

“Yes, — she goes to the Normal at Dalton. Mag- 
gie is getting very learned. She’s been there — 
let me see — four years. Maggie’s favorite study 
is psychology.” 

Douglas threw back his head, and burst into a 
roar of laughter. Prince Albert pricked his ears. 
Margy looked at Douglas in mild surprise. 

“Well — it’s no joke with Maggie,” she shook 
her head wisely, speaking with a quaint precision. 
“She can say the longest sentences with the big- 
gest words you ever heard! I can’t understand a 
thing about it, — it has no sense in it that I can see. 
But then I am not clever in the least little bit, you 
know.” 

From the brow of a long rocky hill they came in 
sight of the unkept, straggling houses of Clam 
Creek, huddled together in the hollow. Before the 
door of one of the most pretentious, a crude, square 

[37] 


Cfie ©ttenfftft 

structure, painted a brilliant red, with a flaring 
green roof, and half-hanging green blinds, stand- 
ing on some planks in the black mud of the yard, 
they saw Julia in earnest converse with two Negro 
women, and a crowd of dirty-faced urchins sur- 
rounding her. One of the women, a bright mu- 
latto, was glaring at her in undisguised insolence; 
the other seemed to be of a more conciliatory turn 
of mind, and had a look of simpering, grovelling 
meekness on her face. Louise was sitting on a 
box beside the front gate, which was lying on the 
ground, partially covered with a growing gourd 
vine. A speckled pig rooted in the dirt near the 
fence; an old hen clucked in a half-hearted way to 
three lean chicks. 

At sight of the buggy, Louise bounded to her 
feet, and met them. 

“Douglas, I am tired out, — and my head is ach- 
ing.” She lowered her voice. “Stay with Julia, 
won’t you, and let me go on with Margy?” 

“Tough it out, my dear,” he answered, with 

rising spirits. “I’m sorry, — but Margy and I ” 

He raised his voice, but broke off as Julia nodded 
a cheerful greeting. 

“Ya-as um,” the woman was saying, planting her 
broad foot in the mud, and shambling toward them. 
“Clo Preston ain’ had no voice in dis place fer sum 
time, — not sence hu’ dawter died. Hu’ dawter, yo* 
know, wus a powe’ful ’oman, — she wus a terror, 
she wus ! A terror in Clam Creek ! But sence she 
died ” 


[38] 


2Df tbt mtak 

“She was Maggie’s mother, wasn’t she?” Julia 
inquired. 

“She lef’ dem two chillen, — Napoleon an’ Mag- 
gie,” the woman continued. “Clo, she tried to mek 
’em wo’k up dar at Glen Haben, jest fer de fun uv 
it, — but no-si r-ee, dey had de ba’kbone er der ma, 
an’ her ’maciated idees, too, an’ ’twarn’t long fo’ 
Napoleon lef’. Now, my Silas, — he’s es likely a 
boy es dey is. We wus a-hopin’ that you, — shet 
up, dar, Joshua,” she turned to the children who 
were scrambling among themselves, and gave one 
of them a sound smack on the side of his head, 
which sent him sprawling on his back. He emitted 
an unearthly howl, as he rolled over in the mud, 
which was taken up by the others, calling forth 
further admonitions of a violent nature. 

Julia crossed the yard and came to the side of 
the buggy. 

“We are on our way to the store and to Mrs. 
Blair’s,” Margy volunteered, while Douglas smiled 
serenely, flapping the lines lazily on the back of 
Prince Albert. 

Julia looked at him quizzically, but he gave no 
heed, apparently intent upon the manoeuvers of a 
pair of flies on the side of the horse’s neck. Pres- 
ently their eyes met; his shifted for a second, then 
returned to hers, with a bold stare, which had the 
hint of a challenge in it. She laughed. 

“This is somewhat out of your way, isn’t it?” 
she said at length, her keen, black eyes searching 
Margy’s face for a moment. 

“Mr. Lloyd ” 


[39] 


C6e 

‘'The longest way around is sometimes the quick- 
est/' Douglas interrupted indifferently. “What’s 
the need of hurry? We have the day before us. 
Go ’long, Prince !” 

Julia stood in the road and watched the buggy 
until it disappeared around a bend. 

“Miss Farwell does an awful lot of good, doesn’t 
she?” Margy remarked, after a very long pause. 

“Does she?” he replied absently. 

When they reached Gray Rock, after attending 
to the errands at the store, Margy asked, somewhat 
nervously : 

“Would you mind doing a little something for 
me?” 

“Nothing could please me more,” he returned 
gallantly. 

“Then — won’t you take those baskets in? I’ll 
wait right here, — and tell Mrs. Blair, — there are 
plenty more, if she needs them.” 

“You are a little — coward,” he challenged, as he 
jumped stiffly over the wheel. 

“I know I am,” she replied guiltily; “but I’ve 
been worrying about it ever since we started. I 
wouldn’t know what to say to her.” 

“All right, you wait here,” he called pleasantly, 
striding up the walkway with the baskets. 

“Oh, I’m so glad that’s over!” She gave a sigh 
of relief, as Douglas turned Prince Albert’s head 
and they started homeward. “What did she say?” 
she asked timidly. 

“She inquired the price per hundred, — wanted 
to know if they came cheaper by the thousand ” 

[40] 


2DJ tfie tajeaft 

“No!’’ Margy exclaimed. “You’re only making 
fun.” 

“I told her,” he went on, “that everything that 
grew at Glen Haven is entirely at her disposal. 
She said some nice things, too.” 

“She did?” 

“Yes, — about your eyes.” 

He turned, facing her. She blushed prettily. 
He let his eyes rest upon her, with the instinctive 
pleasure one feels before an exquisite work of art, 
— reflectively, meditatively, — at the rounded curves 
of her strong young body, at the strength of her 
hips, at the turn of her dainty ankle. 

“I am much obliged to you,” she said. 

“To her or to me?” 

“To you — both,” she laughed. 

“There’s the Beechwood lane,” she told him, 
as they looked down a long, narrow driveway, 
arched with overhanging boughs, through which 
the noonday sunlight filtered in flickering shadows 
on the ground. 

“Let’s stop by and get a glass of buttermilk. 
Aunt Susie has the best buttermilk!” 

“Why, — to be sure. How stupid of me!” Doug- 
glas quoted, as Prince Albert trotted through the 
shadows. “Of course, we will stop at Beechwood. 
Is it as large a place as Glen Haven?” 

“Not so large, — and not nearly so beautiful,” 
said Margy simply. “Glen Haven is the oldest 
place in the county. It was a grant from King 
James to Lee Preston, who belonged to the Royal 
Guards. They haven’t the big porches and pillars 

[41] 


C6e %)tttnsth 

at Beechwood, but it’s a dear, quaint house, isn’t 
it?” 

Aunt Susie met them, — her faded blonde hair 
caught up straight from her forehead in a mild 
attempt at pompadour, her sharp little face alive 
and keen to every interest. 

‘"Get right out, dearie, — and come in. We are 
just sitting down to dinner.” 

Margy leaned over the side of the buggy. 

‘‘Is it as late as that? We just came by to get 
a peep at you and perhaps a glass of buttermilk.” 
She turned toward Douglas. “Shall we stay to 
dinner?” 

“Ah, — it’s very kind of you, I am sure!” he 
said, politely addressing Aunt Susie, who was re- 
garding them with a twinkle in her eye. “But — 
hadn’t we better go on ? They are expecting us. I 
don’t know,” he broke off suddenly, with a chuckle, 
“could we phone them?” 

“Yes, we could phone,” Margy replied. 

“Then — let’s stay,” he exclaimed. Turning Prince 
Albert’s head, he jumped over the wheel and helped 
Margy down. 

“I’ll take care of the horse,” Robert Norwood 
said to Douglas, coming through the doorway and 
putting on a wide slouch hat. As Douglas thanked 
him, he looked at the man with interest and ap- 
proval. His frank, boyish face; his broad, white 
brow, with the faint tracery of blue veins at the 
temples, stood out under a mass of jet, black hair; 
his long, straight nose, — clearly cleft mouth, — 
strong, firm chin, spoke to his acute senses of a 

[42] 


S>f tbt ^eaK 

power, a will, that for good or ill would assert it- 
self. The rough, ill-fitting clothes of the farmer 
sat easily on him, emphasizing the natural sym- 
metry and beauty of a lithe, athletic figure. 

“The phone is here in the hall. Come right in,” 
he added hospitably; “I’ll join you presently.” 

On the lower step he paused ; “And how is our 
little Princess to-day?” he asked, in a low tone to 
Margy. 

“All right,” smiling at him. “Oh, weVe had a 
fine time,” she explained, unpinning her sailor and 
throwing it on a porch chair. 

“I hope you are hungry,” Aunt Susie remarked, 
as they took the places at the table which she had 
hurriedly laid for them. 

“No one could help but be hungry, when they see 
your fried chicken and buttermilk. I’m starved!” 
said Margy. 

After dinner they loitered around the place, 
Margy and Robert walking across the fields, in 
search of buttercups, while Douglas entertained 
Aunt Susie on the porch. 

Margy returned, her cheeks flushed from the 
air and exercise, her eyes happy with excitement, 
her arms filled with buttercups. 

“We don’t have many of these at Glen Haven,” 
she said, seating herself on the lower step, and 
arranging the flowers. “I thought Uncle Lee would 
be here by this time.” 

“There he is now,” said Robert, as a big, white 
horse came galloping up the lane, the long, frock 
coat of the rider flapping at his side. 

[43] 


Cfte ©trenstfi 

**Hello — ^hello — hello, everybody!’' He was off 
his horse at a bound. “Good evening, Mr. Lloyd.” 

“I was at the court house, Robert,” he went on, 
“and they asked me to bring you this,” taking a 
yellow slip of paper from his pocket. 

Robert tore it open, glanced at it, and handed it 
to Uncle Lee, while Margy watched them breath- 
lessly. 

“What is it?” she asked anxiously, bounding to 
her feet. 

“It’s nothing of any — consequence,” Robert re- 
plied awkwardly, looking at Aunt Susie. 

“It’s a telegram, — and a telegram is always im- 
portant.” 

“A little girl with a birthday next week, — 
shouldn’t be too inquisitive,” said Uncle Lee, play- 
fully drawing her to him. 

“It doesn’t seem to me,” spoke up Aunt Susie, 
“that you are treating Margy exactly fair. She 
isn’t a child, any more; and if that telegram is 
what I think it is, it certainly concerns her, more 
than anyone else. I think she should be told at 
once.” 

Uncle Lee’s arms tightened about her. 

“My dear little girl,” he began, “you know, don’t 
you, that we have been trying for a long time to 
sell Glen Haven?” 

“Yes, — yes,” drawing herself away from him. 

“Well, — this message says that we have had a 
good offer.” 

Margy’s face went white ; she looked appealingly 
from one to the other. 

[44] 


SDf t{ie tDSleaft 

“I’ve always told you, haven’t I, that I would 
never sell Glen Haven?” she spoke at last defiantly, 
don’t see why you are always trying to do it.” 

‘‘Margy,” Robert began patiently, ^‘you know 
Aunt Nancy is growing very old. For the last 
year she has left everything to you and Mammy Clo. 
It’s a miracle how things have held together as long 
as they have.” 

‘‘But, — we get along all right.” 

“My dear, the place is too great a burden for 
you ; it’s going to rack and ruin. You don’t under- 
stand money matters.” 

“A burden!” she almost screamed. “The very 
idea of Glen Haven being a burden to anybody! 
No, I don’t understand about money, — I don’t want 
to understand anything about money! I’d rather 
have Glen Haven than all the money in the world.” 

“It isn’t a question of what we want, dear,” 
Robert replied firmly. 

“Oh, — well, — I hope they won’t take it!” she 
retorted, fastening her sailor, with a murderous 
thrust of a hatpin. “If they come to see it, I will 
tell them that it isn’t worth five cents!” 

Douglas was an amused listener to this little 
scene. He helped Margy pick up her fallen flow- 
ers, while Robert was getting the horse and buggy 
ready for them. It was late dusk before they 
started again for Glen Haven. 

The air was cool and crisp. Margy took off 
her hat, when they had started, and held it in her 
lap, letting the breeze blow through her hair. She 
seemed sad, — absorbed. When they turned into 

[45] 


Cfte gitreitgtj) 

the lane once more, and jogged along through the 
deep sand between the broken fences, Douglas no- 
ticed that her eyes grew very wistful, and that she 
struggled to keep back the tears. 

“Dear me,” she said at last, as if in response to 
his unspoken sympathy, “IVe grieved for Glen 
Haven at least once a year ever since I can re- 
member. It’s always been for sale, you know, and 
once in a while some one makes an offer, — ^but they 
have never amounted to anything, yet, — so maybe 
this one won’t either,” she ended, more cheerily. 

“There’s no use crossing bridges that we may 
never get to, is there?” she asked. 

“Not the least bit in the world ! I wouldn’t if I 
were you.” 

“Oh, but it is hard !” she said, with tears in her 
voice. “They say it is going to ruin, — ^but it is 
beautiful, isn’t it? And — I do love it so! I love 
every sprig of grass, — every crumbling stone! I 
am part of it, — and it is part of me! I wouldn’t 
know how to live anywhere else. I’d always feel 
that I must come back home.” 

Her wistful eyes lingered over the broad acres 
until they rested among a cluster of cedars, en- 
closed in an iron fence. 

“I suppose some rich Yankee will buy it, and cut 
down the trees and plow up the graveyard,” she 
said. 

“We each of us live on some one’s grave,” he 
spoke tenderly, kindly, for he felt that her sorrow 
was a very real thing to her. 

“Who does the work of the farm?” he inquired. 

[46] 


f>f t|)e SHeafe 

“Oh, — Robert helps, — he comes over and helps, 
and Uncle Lee makes Napoleon plow up the gar- 
den for us. Mammy does a lot, — we all help, and 
weVe gotten along, — somehow, and been so 
happy I” 

This irresponsible, care-free happiness opened up 
a vista of life to Douglas Lloyd, of which his prac- 
tical mind knew nothing whatever. To be happy, 
under the conditions in which Margy lived, seemed 
impossible; for him and for his people, such living 
would be untold torture. 

He felt, as never before, the nearness of the vast 
struggle, which left the South wrecked and impov- 
erished. Heretofore, it had seemed some vague dis- 
aster that could never, by any possibility, touch 
him from any point of contact. In the great, grind- 
ing, throbbing modern life, in which he fought and 
held a place, one had no time to listen to the far-off 
murmurings of lost hopes, or sobbings of despair. 

Here, underneath the light, pleasing, lazy coun- 
try life, one felt the throb of the mighty tragedy, 
and the infinite pity of it. Everything was so old, 
— yet so young with Spring. 

He thought of the long past forgotten years, 
when these poor dead folk who sleep their eternal 
sleep in the little graveyard, had looked out on this 
same scene of green grass, of rich fields, of blue 
water; when the blood of youth flowed in their 
veins, and life stretched before them in unbroken 
promise. Ah, Time and Fate take queer turns and 
revolutions ! 

“We’re late, aren’t we?” Margy roused him 

[47] 


C6e 

from his reverie. ‘‘I wonder if supper is over.*’ 

There was no one in sight when they reached 
the porch. Margy gathered her bundles and flow- 
ers together, and Douglas drove Prince Albert on 
a trot to the barn. 

Julia and Louise met him in the front hall, as 
he was hanging up his hat and starting for the din- 
ing room. 

‘'You have had a pleasant day?” Julia inquired. 

“Charming,” Douglas replied truthfully. 

“We are going to the wharf for the mail,” Louise 
said ; “shall we wait for you ?” 

“No,” he replied, as he turned on his heel and 
left them. 


[48] 


£D{ tbt S^eak 


CHAPTER III 

A CHALLENGE 

J ULIA moved noiselessly about her room. For 
early May the warmth and humidity were op- 
pressive. The leaves were pulseless on the trees 
without, and the curtains barely stirred with a faint 
breeze that came in at the open window. 

Louise Lloyd was taking her usual afternoon nap. 
Julia looked at her reclining figure on the high 
tester bed and smiled; Louise did so enjoy this 
sleep! The house was very quiet; the noises of 
the farmyard did not penetrate into the large, front, 
upstairs room. A few twittering birds in the eaves 
of the house was all that broke the stillness. 

Julia surveyed her reflection in the old-fashioned 
mirror between the windows, as she gave a last 
few touches to the black hair around her forehead, 
and about her neck. She had put on a long robe 
of lavender silk and lace that floated and fell about 
her as she glided around the room. 

Snatching a letter and a handkerchief from the 
dresser, she cautiously opened the door leading into 
the hall, and peered out. Reassuring herself, with 
a little laugh of satisfaction, she slipped by. 

The door of Douglas’ room was wide open. He 

[49] 


Cfie ^tttnstb 

had heard her, but sat stolidly in a big chintz-cov- 
ered chair, with his feet upon the window sill, com- 
placently smoking a cigarette. His coat was hang- 
ing on the back of a chair near him. 

''Am I intruding upon you, — or the proprieties, 
if I come in for a little chat?” she inquired bright- 
ly, from the doorway. 

He did not stir, but looked at her between the 
puffs of his cigarette. 

"Not upon me, certainly,” he answered care- 
lessly. 

"You do not seem overjoyed to see me,” with a 
look of laughing reproach, as she came up to him, 
"or scarcely polite, even, — I would like to sit down I” 

He was on his feet at a bound, and, with an 
ostentatious show of gallantry, offered his chair, 
making her a sweeping bow. 

"I beg your pardon.” 

"Thanks,” seating herself, with an air of studied 
grace. 

"Here is a letter I received yesterday noon,” she 
began, as he crossed the room and pulled a broad 
low chair to the opposite side of the window. "I 
tried to give it to you at once, — but I couldn’t find 
you,” she was holding the letter between both hands 
and looking at it contemplatively. "I tried to give 
it to you last night, — but I couldn’t find you.” Look- 
ing at him archly, she added : "I tried to give it to 
you this morning, but — I — couldn’t — find — you.” 

"Hello, — it’s from Mayer!” He was alert at 
last; tossing his cigarette out of the window, he 
opened the letter and read aloud : 

[50] 


©f tbt mtnk 

‘*My Dear Miss Farwell: I have not yet for- 
mally thanked you for the very delightful breath of 
Spring that you so thoughtfully sent to me in the 
shape of a box of violets. They seemed still fresh 
with the dew of the garden, and were I a poet, they 
would doubtless have called forth a thrilling effu- 
sion. I felt the stirring, — but lacked the means of 
expression, — hence this prosaic acknowledgment. 

‘'By the way, I believe I have a partner in Vir- 
ginia, — at least one left here for there about ten 
days ago. I want him to know that I think it a 
beautiful thing to have a partner in this strenuous 
world of commercial strife. I cherish every little 
word from him, — they are so inspiring and help- 
ful. They come on picture postals, with alluring 
sylvan scenes! Now the postals are beautiful, but 
my collection is complete. If you can attract his 
attention for a few moments from the fried chicken 
and hot biscuits, — will you kindly remind him that 
the firm of Lloyd and Mayer is still doing business 
at 71 Plume Street, New York, — and that the 
world is a cold and cruel taskmaster? 

“My regards to Miss Louise, believe me, 
“Sincerely yours, 

“Alfred Mayer." 

“A-hum!” Douglas ejaculated, folding the letter 
and, carefully adjusting it into the envelope, he 
handed it back to her. He thrust his hands into his 
pockets and looked gloomily out of the window. 

“Well?” she questioned brightly. He did not 

[SI] 


Cfie ©ttengtl) 

reply. ‘Will you answer, or shall I? When are 
you going back?’' 

“I will answer, — I am going to wire him to come 
down here for a week himself.” 

She looked at him sharply, to see whether he 
spoke sincerely; but his face was a mask, and she 
could read nothing in it. 

“Do,” she said cheerfully. Rising to her feet, 
she leaned on the side of the window, and looked 
at him with an air of indolent amusement. Then 
she turned and began to move aimlessly about the 
room. 

“White lilacs!” she exclaimed, pausing by the 
mantel. “I asked Maggie to get some for me the 
other day, and she said there weren’t any near here 1 
Where did you find them?” she asked. 

“Margy put them there,” he answered. 

“Oh!” 

She was standing behind him, and her face rip- 
pled with laughter. 

“I wonder what time it is? Didn’t you have a 
little clock?” 

He lighted a fresh cigarette before he replied. 

“Yes,” uncertainly; “I gave it to Margy, — she 

likes to get up early and ” 

“Oh!” 

Julia had seen the clock in Margy ’s room that 
very morning. 

“Why — what a very odd pin,” she exclaimed in- 
nocently, stooping to examine a little pin in the fly 
of his coat. “A violet, — in that queer design! I 
never saw one like it. Is it some secret order?” 

[52] 


SDf tht HBcafe 

“It’s a little class pin of Margy’s,” he replied, 
awkwardly but defiant at last. 

A long silence came between them. Douglas did 
not raise his eyes, he was thinking very quickly. 
Had she divined his purpose, — accepted his chal- 
lenge, — and was now laughing in his face? It was 
not improbable that she understood him better than 
he understood himself. She was no girl, brimful 
of dreamings and illusions! 

His mind recoiled from her knowledge of him- 
self, — ^his nature, its strength, — ^perhaps its many 
weaknesses. The thought grew intolerable that she, 
with that wonderful intuitive faculty, which all his 
life had dogged his steps from every woman he 
had ever known, should see and read his blundering 
attempt at strategy. 

Her manner certainly during the week had 
given him no inkling that she did. She had been 
her dignified, well-balanced self ; eyes glowing from 
intellectual fervour and depth, — with the face of 
an enthusiast, an idealist. 

She dropped her hands into her lap, and broke 
into peals of ringing laughter. 

‘^Douglas — oh! — Douglas, do you imagine you 
are inscrutable? You overdo it, my dear! It is 
entertaining to those of us who look on.’’ 

Julia was in a gay mood. She was altogether 
pleased with the turn affairs had taken. 

‘‘You have been Margy’s shadow for a week! 
Following her around, anticipating her slightest 
wish, — fairly smothering the poor child with your 

[53] 


Cfie ©trcngtl) 

attention!’’ She made a slight grimace. ‘^You do 
violence to your reason when you think that you 
can make me jealous of a little chit of a girl, — ^like 
Margy, — it does not flatter my intelligence, — eh, 
Douglas ?” 

She had gone behind his chair, and began play- 
fully running her hands through his hair, when he 
bounded to his feet and wheeled upon her, catching 
her wrists in his hands until she winced. 

‘'You, — oh! — you,” he exclaimed; “what a wom- 
an you are!” 

“Oh, dear,” she gasped in mock alarm, “I did not 
know that I would encounter such a bear !” 

“Yes you did !” he cried. “You knew — ^just that \ 
Why did you come in here?” 

He paused a moment; she flushed slightly, ar- 
ranging the laces about her open throat. 

“To bring you the letter. There seemed no other 
way.” 

She threw herself into the chair again and raised 
her arms above her head. The long, filmy sleeves 
fell away from her shoulders. 

“You came to torment the bear, — and make it 
growl, — that’s why you came I” He towered above 
her. “It amuses you! The simplest act of your 
life is always the result of some far-reaching in- 
tention ! You’re an intriguer to the backbone, Julia. 
Now, what have you to say?” 

“I will say — how well you look when you are in 
a temper!” said Julia, as if she were criticizing a 
picture. “Really, almost handsome!” 

“A worm will turn, some time,” he went on an- 

[54] 


fl)f tbt mtnk 

grily. ‘‘You come in here with your perfumed, 
silken draperies floating about you, — your gleam- 
ing neck and beautiful arms. Even your savage 
‘fore-mother’ would have bedecked herself in beads 
and bracelets, — as a suggestion of covering,” with 
brutal frankness. “You laugh and play and make 
merry, and all the time, you know, that the bear 
will growl, sooner or later. 

“Power is the ruling force of your life, Julia. 
To feel its workings is your consuming passion! 
You love to see me tremble before your beauty and 
grovel and plead at your feet! Ah, — ^Julia, — take 
care! It may carry you, some day, a little further 
than you intend to go 1” 

The blood mounted to her face and dyed her 
throat and forehead. 

“You are candid, if you are not polite,” she said, 
moving toward the door. She turned suddenly, 
and came back to him. He saw that her eyes were 
laughing again. 

“So, — you do not like clinging silks and fine 
laces! You, — Douglas Lloyd, the fastidious, — ^pre- 
fer — starched ginghams! I bear you no ill-will, 
my dear,” she went on lightly. “Margy is a rare 
little creature, as winsome as her name ! A happy, 
careless girl, — a willful, spoiled child! I, myself, 
fell under the spell of her naive beauty — years ago. 
I am glad she entertains you, — but look out!” she 
held up a warning finger, “that a certain hot-headed 
youth, with an old Rebel shotgun doesn’t come after 
you !” 


[ 55 ] 


CI)C strength 

He heard her laugh ring out down the hall as 
she left him. 

Julia found Louise standing in front of an open 
trunk shaking out some fresh waists. 

am glad to hear that laugh,” Louise remarked ; 
'‘you and Douglas seem to scrap more than any- 
thing else lately. He is so glum it makes me melan- 
choly to look at him. And yet he must be enjoy- 
ing it or he wouldn^t stay. By the way, Julia, did 
you know that Glen Haven is to be sold? Robert 
told me about it this morning.” 

"I hadn’t heard of it,” Julia replied, leisurely 
unpinning her hair. She shook out the long black 
masses and came over to the window. 

“Yes, they have to sell it!” Louise continued. 
“They’re as poor as church mice and as proud as 
Lucifer! But I do feel sorry for them, don’t you? 
Did you notice those rare old laces poor Aunt 
Nancy had on last night? Weren’t they exquisite? 
It looks like the place ought to belong to them, 
doesn’t it? After they have owned it for three 
hundred years. ^ They were the first original own- 
ers. Think of it ! It’s queer, — but do you know, I 
thought at one time that you would buy this place, 
Julia?” 

“Did you?” Julia replied absently, letting her 
eyes sweep the broad horizon. Even before Louise 
had ceased to speak, the sudden suggestion had 
taken hold upon her. 

What a fine old place it was! How rare such 
places have become ! How Margy must love every 
acre of it ! The thought flashed into her mind that 

[56] 


fl)f tbt mtak 

from the very dawn of her existence the girl had 
looked upon just such glory! For a moment there 
was tenderness and pity in her heart ! 

It had caught her fancy from the beginning, and 
even Douglas seemed to have imbibed something of 
its spirit! The old, pillared Colonial mansion, in 
its romantic, historic setting, in Tidewater Vir- 
ginia, — in whose waters the oar of the Indian had 
lapped and upon whose shores had landed the first 
blue blood from the old country! How pleased 
Douglas would be! 

With Julia Far well action quickly follows im- 
pulse. In a few moments she was at the telephone 
calling Beechwood. 

‘Ts this Beechwood — is this Mr. Robert — well — • 
this is Miss Farwell. Louise tells me that Glen 
Haven has been put on the market for sale? — 
‘Yes’ — I didn’t know. Have you closed with the 
offer? — ‘Not yet’ — Can’t you hold off for a day 
or two, until I can talk with you ? How much, you 
say? ‘Eight thousand dollars’ — I see. Yes — yes — 
very well — if you’ll come over this evening, I will 
be glad to talk with you about it. That’s all — all 
right — good-bye.” 

So it came about that, that very evening, Julia 
supplemented the offer of eight thousand dollars 
by adding one thousand to it and giving her check 
for the amount as an evidence of good faith. Thus 
the estate of Glen Haven passed into her hands. 

“There is one thing more,” she added, as Robert 
was opening the door, when their conference was 
over. “I really do not want to disturb Aunt Nancy 

[57] 


Cfie @)trett0t6 

and Margy for at least one year. I have no use 
for the place until then. Wouldn’t it be best for us 
to say nothing about this, until that time?” 

Robert’s troubled face cleared slowly; he looked 
at her, scanning her with intelligent penetration. 
She knew what was in his mind, and remarked 
genially : 

dare say, — ^by that time, your plans will be 
more definite, also. Oh, yes, — it is best, all around ! 
That is settled then, isn’t it?” 

“I am much indebted to you ” he faltered. 

*Tt is not a question of gratitude,” she remarked 
lightly, putting him at ease; “it is merely one of 
convenience.” 

To the surprise of both Douglas and Julia, Mayer 
wired a return message that he was leaving on the 
next boat for Virginia. They met him on the 
wharf. 

“Shut up shop, — tacked a notice on the door that 
we were gone on a hunting expedition for moon- 
beams,” he exclaimed, as he placed his baggage on 
the rude planks. 

“It’s the best day’s, work you ever did, old fel- 
low,” answered Douglas, slapping him affection- 
ately on the shoulder. “We won’t lose anything 
by it. Is Napoleon here?” he inquired of Margy, 
who was standing by the side of Robert, as he 
talked to the captain. 

She looked up at them; Alfred Mayer gave her 
a surprised stare of approval and admiration. 

“Ya-as, sur,” Napoleon stepped out from a group 


2Df tfic ^eak 

of Negro idlers on the platform and jerked a tat- 
tered cap from his head. 

“Take this luggage to the house,” Douglas said, 
handing him a piece of money. 

The usual introductions over, Julia laughingly 
took possession of Mayer, and pointed out to him 
things of interest as they sauntered toward Glen 
Haven. Douglas followed, walking with Margy 
and Robert. 

On the porch Julia turned and faced them. 

“Mr. Mayer is going with me through Clam 
Creek this afternoon, — just after dinner. Louise 
is in her room with a headache, — Margy, you will 
try to keep Douglas from being too lonesome, — 
won’t you, my dear?” 

A sharp retort was on Douglas’ lips, until his 
eyes caught the amazed wonder in Mayer’s face. 

“Margy has already promised to let me help her,” 
Douglas replied quietly, “and no arrangement could 
possibly suit me better,” he added with emphasis. 

Perhaps it was the tone in his voice, perhaps the 
light on his face, perhaps the easy, unconscious 
manner in which he spoke her name that caused a 
sullen, flickering shadow to pass over Robert Nor- 
wood’s face. Margy looked at him; there was an 
alert nervousness about his eyes, — a kind of de- 
fiant patience that puzzled her ; he had been strange- 
ly silent lately. She followed him to where his 
horse was standing by the side of the fence. 

“I am sorry, Robert,” she said to him, as he 
stood with his foot in the stirrup. “I do not want 

[ 59 ] 


Cfte %txtnetb 

to be unreasonable ! Only, — you do understand how 
hard it is to give up Glen Haven, don’t you?” 

‘‘Everything seems hard, Margy,” he said irrele- 
vantly. 

“We seem to get along, somehow. And, now 
that we have four boarders ” 

“That’s what I hate about it!” he burst forth. 
“How long will they be here ?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered vaguely. She was 
tying and untying the strings of her sunbonnet, 
and, when she raised her eyes to his, he saw the 
faintest suggestion of a hurt, wistful look creep 
into them. 

“Forgive me, dear, — I am a fool!” He mount- 
ed his horse and galloped down the lane. 

Douglas spent the afternoon with Margy in 
drinking in the rest and beauty of the old Virginia 
plantation ; in listless wanderings around the shaded 
lanes; in aimless exploration of the orchards and 
old-fashioned gardens. 

It was a wonderful day; the great river glis- 
tened in the sun like a silver mirror, — a perfect re- 
flection of blue sky and slowly drifting white clouds. 
He made her talk to him, while he listened atten- 
tively, blowing long lines of pale blue smoke from 
countless cigarettes. 

Story after story, figure after figure did he draw 
from her, warm with the hidden glow of her sim- 
ple, loving life. He made her talk to him of the 
people of Clam Creek; the shiftless, idle, menacing 
Negro was to her but one of the familiar blots on 
an otherwise peaceful landscape, — the lives and fates 

[6o] 


S>t tbt meaK 

of whom, their spiritual degradation and crimes, 
were entwined with the history of her people and 
her own young memories. 

There was something in the general freshness 
and purity of her presence which was at once very 
gay and very sad, that began singularly to steal 
upon Douglas’ emotions. Certain barriers seemed 
to be falling, certain secret sympathies emerging, — 
drawn from regions far below their difference in 
age and intellectual habits. 

The sweet, green lane, the broad acres, the mat- 
ing robins, the pregnant earth, vibrating with the 
strong air of awakening life, caused a stirring of 
his blood, by some far-reaching power of nature, — 
a vague, unexpressed, unrecognized yearning! 

‘‘Why have you been so sad to-day, little Prin- 
cess?” he asked at length playfully, as they came 
out through the graveyard toward the beach. 

“Have I been sad?” she asked. “I guess I have 
— I don’t know why! I have never known a trou- 
ble in my life more serious than a broken doll, — 
until this worry about Glen Haven.” She stood 
still on the beach, gazing out over the waters. The 
breeze from the sea lifted the moist hair from 
Douglas’ forehead. He came up to her, — small, 
lithe, graceful, — the flickering rays of the setting 
sun touching lovingly the live glowing masses of 
her hair. 

“It makes one feel lost — little, — doesn’t it, to 
stand here by the ocean?” she went on, “and I do 
feel so — lonely, sometimes. I feel that I want to 

[6i] 


Clje ^tttnstb 

cry. If I told you why, you would think me very 
silly.” 

‘‘Life is often very silly, Margy,” he said, noting 
a vivid softness in her face, bright and wistful, 
which moved him with a new and strange tender- 
ness. “Tell me, — and let me see!” 

The brusque assurance of his tone sounded oddly 
in her Southern ear, and for a moment she did not 
answer; but he was not easy to resist long. She 
sank down on the sand with a quick, graceful move- 
ment. Douglas was painfully conscious of his awk- 
wardness, as he lowered his heavier form beside 
her. She leaned over, and, picking up a handful 
of sand, sifted it slowly through her fingers. 

“I am lonely and blue and want to cry,” she be- 
gan slowly and rhythmically, with the sweet playful 
tone in her voice, “because I wish, — I wish it were 
a hundred years ago, and that I was my great- 
grandmother, who probably walked along this beach, 
— and played with the sand when she was eighteen.” 

“So — the birthday has passed, and you did not 
let us know?” he asked reproachfully. 

“That was the day I spent at Beechwood,” she 
replied. 

“But this is such a big place, isn’t it? That is 
the reason Robert says we must sell it and keep 
Beechwood,” she went on. “And there’s only been 
Aunt Nancy and me ever since I was two years old. 
I used to have the blues sometimes at school, when 
the other girls had letters and things from their 
fathers and mothers and brothers and sisters, — and 
I realized that, way down here on this dear old bay 

[62] 


2Df tfjc caeab 

there were only Aunt Nancy and Mammy Clo, and 
Prince Albert, — and the graveyard down the lane. 
I even planned details of an early death, — thus to 
close forever the life-book of my people. And yet 
— and yet” — her voice brightened and she threw 
back her head — “I love it all !” 

“Ah, Margy,” he said to her almost brusquely, 
“these are golden days for you! You stand on the 
brink of the world. Your life is a fair, white page, 
— still unwritten upon! You have nothing to re- 
member, — and nothing to forget! Be content and 
happy with the fruit of the days, as the days yield 
them ! To be young, to be well, to be of the Spring- 
tide, — is it not enough?” 

“We had better be going back,” she exclaimed 
suddenly jumping to her feet and shaking the sand 
from her skirts. “Miss Farwell may have re- 
turned, and supper will be ready soon.” 

They found Julia and Louise and Mr. Mayer in 
the drawing room, standing before a high, marble 
mantel, looking at a full-length portrait of a young, 
Colonial bride. 

“Miss Margy,” Mr. Mayer greeted her as she 
entered, adjusting his eyeglasses with his long, 
pointed fingers, “we have been discussing this pic- 
ture, — and have decided that it is strikingly like 
you.” 

“Everyone has always said so,” said Margy 
simply. 

“She was your great-great-grandmother, was she 
not?” Julia asked slowly. 

“Yes,” answered Margy, rather timidly; “she 

[63] 


Cfte ©trengtft 

came here as a bride when she was eighteen. The 
queen gave her the old-point wedding veil, — but it 
was my great-grandmother who set out the trees on 
the lawn.’^ 

Douglas stepped up beside Julia, and looked long 
into the face of this young bride, — dressed in shim- 
mering satin, with a lace mantilla falling over her 
shoulders, — her fluffy gold-brown hair caught back 
from the forehead by a garland of flowers. 

Suddenly he turned to Margy. 

“You are like her, — curiously like her,’’ as he 
stepped back and looked first at the picture and 
then at her. Margy met his gaze, not with any 
consciousness, — but a little wistfully. 

Julia came up to her, and impulsively put her 
hands on the girl’s shoulder as she said : 

“I hope, my dear, — that you will be, — just as 
happy a bride as she!” 

“She lived to be a very old lady,” Margy con- 
tinued, “and she had twelve children and thirty- 
seven grandchildren when she died.” 

“Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Farwell. 

“And they say,” Margy went on, “that she was 
prettier when she was eighty-one than she was at 
eighteen.” 

“I dare say,” responded Julia dryly. 

“I wish, oh — I wish I had lived then, don’t 
you?” Margy’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. 
Julia laughed. 

“I can’t say that I do, Margy.” 

While they were standing thus, Louise and Mr. 
Mayer were taking a practical inventory of the 

[64] 


Df ti)e Witak 

room, its old mahogany, brasses, mirrors, — they 
had never seen finer or rarer furniture. 

“What a beauty that girl is, — what’s her name — 
Margy?” Alfred Mayer said to Julia, as they were 
seated under the trees on the lawn in the moon- 
light. 

“I’ve always thought she was lovely,” said Louise. 

“If her intellect wee as carefully cultivated, as 
her features are chiseled, one might possibly call 
her beautiful,” remarked Julia lightly. “She is the 
belle of the county, you know, — the little Princess, 
they call her. A pretty little Southern butterfly 
girl, with the Pagan religion of ancestral worship. 
The last representative of the honored Preston 
name, — a helpless child, born a hundred years too 
late!” 

“Douglas seems to find her interesting, at any 
rate,” Mayer replied dryly. 

“That ” Julia laughed, “oh — that is a 

joke!” 

Mayer raised his eyebrows, looking at her quiz- 
zically. 

“Oh — is it?” he responded, turning toward the 
end of the little wharf where Margy and Douglas 
were seated. As he remembered a certain look he 
had surprised on Douglas’ face, while he was be- 
fore the portrait in the drawing-room, he added 
dryly, “and where does the laugh come in?” 

Julia sat erect; there had been something in 
Mayer’s voice that she resented, but she could 
scarcely tell what. 


[65] 


Cl)c ©ttengtft 

“She is the most innocent, unsophisticated child, 
you ever saw,’' she said. “She and Robert are en- 
gaged, you know.” 

There was a pause. 

“She strikes me as a girl of remarkable attrac- 
tion and power,” Mayer replied evenly. 

Julia shot a keen, penetrating glance at him. 

“Oh, — it’s all too absurd,” she said, rising to 
her feet and starting in the direction of the wharf. 

Alfred Mayer and Louise followed slowly. 

“In what direction is the wind blowing,” he re- 
marked in an insinuating, cynical manner, which 
his enemies hated and his friends could scarcely 
tolerate. 

It was lost upon Louise, however. 

“There seems to be scarcely any breeze at all.” 

He laughed uproariously. 

“Unless I am mistaken and all signs fail, — it will 
blow a gale presently.” 

Louise wondered. 


[ 66 ] 


SDt tbt mtuk 


CHAPTER IV 

THE FIRST STORM 

TV/TARGY stood in the door of the little white- 
washed kitchen, her fresh, white dress shin- 
ing in the sun. Robert Norwood swung himself 
from his horse and stopped by the flat stone steps 
beside her. 

‘‘So — you are going fishing?” he queried. 

“Yes,” she replied a little falteringly, “we’ve 
been talking about it for a long time. I promised 
Mr. Lloyd that I would take him, — why not?” she 
ended a trifle defiantly. 

“Now, Margy,” the patient voice of Aunt Nancy 
from within the kitchen came to them, “listen to 
Robert. He will tell you, just as we have, that 
you had better not go !” 

“But why not?” she persisted, turning halfway 
around and taking a basket which Mammy Clo 
handed to her. She put on her white and pink 
sunbonnet and tied it under her chin. 

“Does Mr. Lloyd understand a sailboat?” Robert 
asked sharply. 

“Suppose not, — but I do !” she declared. 

“You!” he laughed. 

He saw Douglas standing in the single boat that 
was tied to the end of the wharf and turned sud- 
denly toward her. 


[67] 


Cjje ©ttengtf) 

“Margy! You surely are not going in that 
shell ?” he asked incredulously. ''I thought you were 
to use my canoe!” 

“We are going in the skiff, if that is what you 
mean,” she returned with a willful toss of her head. 
“You weren’t very polite when I asked you about 
the canoe. It’s all right ! I made Napoleon bail it 
out this morning, and he has put it in shipshape, 
and our bait is all ready — and everything! I’m 
just going out into the inlet off Eagle Point.” 

“What under heaven, Margy, could you do out 
there, if a squall should come up?” he exclaimed 
impatiently. 

Margy opened her eyes wide. 

“A squall!” She stepped outside the door and 
looked around overhead. “There’s isn’t a cloud in 
the sky! Oh, we’ll manage, — somehow, don’t you 
fear!” 

“Somehow!” repeated Robert severely, “it’s time 
you were outgrowing that eternal ‘somehow,’ 
Margy.” 

*^See our lunch?” she came up to him and se- 
renely uncovered the basket for his inspection. 
“Fried chicken, deviled eggs, cookies, — don’t they 
look good?” she asked mischievously. 

“You’ll be back by dark?” he inquired. 

“Don’t be late, Margy,” added Aunt Nancy anx- 
iously from the door. “I shall not have a minute's 
peace until you are back safely. I don’t know why, 
but I feel ” 

“Oh, you dear!” Margy exclaimed, throwing her 
arms around the gentle, old lady’s neck, “don’t you 

[ 68 ] 


ffl)f tfie mtak 

begin to have those awful ‘feelings’ — they never 
happen! And they make your head ache!” 

Mammy Clo gave her two cushions, which she 
deftly bundled under her arm. They watched her, 
as she tripped across the lawn. 

‘T don’ lak it — I don’ lak it!” mumbled Mammy 
from the kitchen door. “Wish dey’s all go bak 
whar dey cum fum!” 

“They are going to-morrow,” said Robert 
shortly. 

Aunt Nancy placed her wrinkled, blue-veined 
hands on his shoulder, and looked into his face with 
troubled eyes. 

“I wish they had never come, Robert,” and she 
passed on to the house and her fine needlework. 

Halfway across the lawn, Margy stopped sud- 
denly. Directly in the path in front she saw Julia 
and Louise and Mr. Mayer, sitting under a group 
of trees. After a moment’s hesitation, she cut off 
toward the garden, and in that way walked to the 
wharf along the beach, which was sheltered from 
their direct view. 

“Oh, how nice and dry the boat is,” she ex- 
claimed, as, ladened with the cushions and the small 
hamper, she appeared at the end of the little wharf. 
Douglas, standing in the bow of the boat below 
her, relieved her of her burdens, and taking her 
by the hands, swung her lightly down beside him. 

“The sun has dried it beautifully.” She threw 
the cushions into the stern seat. “Mammy made me 
bring these, but we have no use for them. She 
fixed us up a dandy lunch !” 

[69] 


Clje 

‘‘See my fishing tackle?” said Dougias with a 
joyous laugh. “The last time I went fishing I 
spent hours in a sporting shop, selecting the best 
rods, the newest improved reels, and the whole 
outfit cost me fifty dollars! Now to-day, I have 
improvised these rods,” he held up for her inspec- 
tion two long, slender willow reeds, which he had 
carefully cut and pruned. “I bought ten cents’ 
worth of hooks and five cents’ worth of line — and 
there you are! Aren’t they beauties?” 

“You see,” said Margy brightly, “one can always 
get along somehow — when they have to! And it 
does just as well!” 

Douglas untied the boat from the rotting piles 
and pushed her off. Margy pulled her sunbonnet 
closer over her face to shelter her eyes from the 
glare of the sun on the water. 

“Now, I will manage the sail, if you will steer,” 
she said with a happy, radiant smile. 

“If you will tell me just how.” 

“Oh, it’s easy,” she said lightly, as she showed 
him the workings of the tiller. The little boat 
glided from the wharf, made a wide and graceful 
sweep, and proceeded leisurely down the river to- 
ward the inlet. 

“I am going to take you off Eagle Point,” said 
Margy as she seated herself in the bow. 

It was a tranquil afternoon, following a hot and 
sultry day. The sky was a clear, silvery blue; the 
waters resting in a gentle calm. There was but 
little wind and it came warm from the land. The 
waters broke against the sides of the boat with a 

[70] 


f>f tbt meafe 

gentle murmur. The sun shone hazily, and only in 
the West, a low line of rugged peaks were erecting 
themselves. 

They skirted the shore, turning into the inlet, 
which led out to the Chesapeake. Toward the East 
the vast sheet of waters met the blue line of the 
sky. A mile westward the turrets of '‘Gray Rock” 
shone in the sun. 

Margy, entirely familiar with the art of handling 
her little craft, sat easily and dreamily, letting her 
free hand play in the water over the side of the 
boat. She seemed strangely content, languid, disin- 
clined to talk. And Douglas with his eyes toward 
the open sea, became engrossed in his own thoughts. 

“I feel curiously lazy,” she said at last, “but I 
love to sail, don’tyou?” 

He made no answer. His thoughts seemed to 
her to be very far away. But there was no impa- 
tience or resentment on her part at the ease with 
which he seemed to exclude her. She had grown 
accustomed to these sudden long silences during 
the past week, and had no personal thought con- 
cerning them. 

“Let’s stop about here,” she said, casting up 
the halyard and lowering the flapping sail. “There’s 
a treacherous place a little further on, where the 
wind sweeps around through Clam Creek. Some- 
times it makes the sail jibe dreadfully.” 

He watched her in silence. There was a free and 
vigorous youth in all her movements, which was 
in sharp contrast to the first general impression of 
frailty, which her slender figure and sensitive face 

[ 71 ] 


C&c §)ttetigt|) 

had given him. There was the irrepressible health 
of youth about her, in the rounded curves of her 
body and the strength of her arms. 

He lifted the crooked anchor, at her bidding, 
and let it drop with a lurch over the side, running 
the rope almost to its length, for the tide was high 
and the waters deeper than she had thought. 

Then they settled themselves comfortably to 
their sport. Douglas was taught his first lesson in 
the art of cutting crabs and baiting hooks and he 
learned it with grim tenacity. For a time, the fish 
bit well, and they had ten fine trout in the basket. 
Then the sport grew slack, and they sat silent, ab- 
sorbed. 

‘T quess the fish think it time for our lunch,” 
said Margy, drawing in her line. 

‘‘And this — is my last day,” remarked Douglas 
moodily. “I go back — to-morrow.” 

She was reaching forward toward the basket; 
she paused an imperceptible moment and her hand 
trembled as she lifted it. 

“To-morrow?” 

He looked at her, but she had turned her face 
away. 

“It’s Mayer — he has hurried things up — he says 
we’ve got to go to-morrow.” 

There was a pause. Margy thought it strange 
that just at that moment, the words he had spoken 
to her on the beach should echo through her mind 
irrelevantly — “you have nothing to remember and 
nothing to forget.” 

“I must go back, you know,” he went on stead- 

[72] 


Df tbt tIMtak 

ily. have had a little taste — a little glimpse of 
what life might mean. These days have been the 
happiest I have ever known — or ever will know.” 

“No!” she exclaimed, her wide-stretched eyes 
full upon him, “you do not know what you say!” 

“But I must go back,” he continued doggedly, 
“to my office — to sit forever under the blaze of 
an electric light ; to endure the eternal monotony of 
brick walls, tin roofs — hideous noises; the grind of 
the treadmill, the plodding round in endless, cir- 
cling paths.” His voice grew in rebellious accents 
as he was speaking. 

“Why do you do it then?” she asked simply. 

“Why indeed!” He looked her full in the face. 

“I’ve always thought that no one could be dull 
in a great city,” she remarked. 

She spread the lunch on a little board between 
them as they sat on each side of the boat. 

“We ought to be very hungry,” said Margy. 

“But we are not,” he added. 

Suddenly a dark shadow passed across the face 
of the sun, and for the first time Margy looked at 
the sky. 

“Oh !” She sprang to her feet, the color leaving 
her face. “We have been very foolish! Quick! 
throw it all overboard — everything! Help me — 
here — the sail! Oh! it’s no use! It’s no use! We 
dare not try it!” 

She stood, wringing her hands. Douglas stared 
at her stupidly. There was no mistaking the terror 
in her face. The sun was shining again — he could 
not understand her excitement. 

[73] 


Ci)e ©trengtfj 

^‘These squalls come with such sudden fury ! 
See!” She pointed toward the West; great, black 
rolling clouds were being drawn slowly up and over 
the sky. Even as they looked there was a vivid 
flash of lightning followed by a low, rumbling peal 
of thunder. 

‘The wind! Ha!” 

“The wind!” Douglas repeated vacantly. There 
had been scarcely a breath of air stirring. It grew 
suddenly cold. 

“Don’t you see that clear, straight line over 
there?” She pointed toward the shore. Douglas 
saw a long silvery line gradually moving toward 
them over the black waters. 

“It is not a mile away ! It is the wind ! O — h !” 

He did not stir. He was unaccustomed to the 
waters, or the signs of approaching squalls. He 
seemed dazed; then the horror of it all was borne 
in upon him. 

“My God!” He sprang to his feet. “Is there 
nothing we can do ? Can’t we make the shore ? It 
doesn’t seem very far!” 

“Haul in the anchor — quick!” she screamed, and 
with maddened strength he tugged at it. “Cut it! 
Cut the rope !” 

With a spring she had the knife he had used 
with the crabs, and as she cut the rope — the next 
instant, with a roar and a force that almost tossed 
them overboard, at its first onslaught, the storm 
swept upon them. 

For a few moments they were in a chaotic world, 
that grew darker and darker about them; the 

[74] 


f>f tbe (USeak 

waves whirled as in a mad dance, and the little 
skiff crashed and beat against them with terrific 
force. 

They were thrown together in the bottom of the 
boat, as it labored in the trough of the sea, the 
rain descended in a blinding sheet; forked streaks 
of lightning seemed to fill the air like blazen de- 
mons. The foaming waters towered directly above 
them, and it seemed to Douglas that the next mo- 
ment they would bury them fathoms deep. 

Huddled together, with clasped hands, they 
waited; the warring elements beating about their 
bodies. The little boat was but as a toy, which the 
waves tossed and played with. 

‘T have caused your death she said hoarse- 

ly. “Forgive me.” 

He drew her to him with a fierce cry. 

“It is not hard to die — Margy — I ” 

There was a crashing sound of splintering tim- 
bers and with a mighty swirl the mast broke off 
and swung round toward them. Margy’s hands 
flew to her ears, and with a face of abject terror 
saw it before it struck. 

“Look out!” she screamed, but it was too late. 
It had struck Douglas on the head as it lurched 
into the sea. 

A long line of foaming water seemed to her to 
run upright before her. She caught him as he fell, 
and with wonderful presence of mind and super- 
human strength hurled him heavily against the other 
side of the boat and sprang after him. The boat 
careened violently, poised for a moment on the crest 

[ 75 ] 


CIbe 

of the boiling wave, then swooped down into the 
yawning chasm. 

‘‘Merciful Heavens;!’^ she cried, “we rode that 
awful wave!” 

Down on her knees, she flung overboard every- 
thing she could reach in the bottom of the boat, 
and raised Douglas’ head and shoulders out of the 
water. 

“Mercy — mercy ” she sobbed wildly, as his 

arms fell beside him like a lifeless thing. She 
dragged him toward the stern and put his head on 
a pillow on the seat. Then she fell to bailing 
with all her might, using an old tin bucket. Her 
hands began to bleed, but she gave no heed. This 
most imminent peril averted, she crawled back to- 
ward Douglas, and pushed him down further in 
the boat so she could get by him, and lifted his 
head on to her lap. 

Across his forehead was a long cut. She tried 
to tear her skirt into bandages, but the linen was 
too strong. She crawled once more across the 
boat. The darkness of the night began to add to 
the darkness of the storm. The waves beat about 
her, bruising her body cruelly by striking her 
against the seats. But she gave no heed — all the 
fighting blood of her forefathers rallied to her sup- 
port. 

Finding the knife at last, she tore her skirt into 
bandages and crawled back. She listened for the 
heartbeat, unloosening his soaked collar. Reas- 
sured somewhat, she slid off the stern seat, for she 
could not hold on and use her hands. She staunched 

[76] 


®f tfie iDHeatt 

the wound as best she could with the salt water, 
and bound his head tightly. 

The storm continued to lash them with relent- 
less fury. Drenched to the skin, her hands numb 
with cold — they were pitched and tossed at the 
mercy of the wind and waves. In the flashes of 
vivid lightning, that lit up the waters continually, 
she tried to see the shore. Then it dawned upon 
her that they would be carried out to sea, if by a 
miracle of mercy, the little boat should hold to- 
gether. There was no hope — none ! 

She looked upon Douglas’ unconscious figure in 
an agony of pity and tenderness. She had brought 
him to this! By her willfulness — her carelessness! 
She felt him move and he turned uneasily. Once 
he spoke aloud, and she bent still nearer, eagerly, 
thinking that he had awakened. 

"‘Margy — Margy ” she caught the words — • 

and a great clamoring joy surged in her heart. 

“These days have been the happiest I have ever 

known — it is not hard to die ” The words he 

had spoken rang in her ears. He had not finished 

— had he meant Margy sat motionless for a 

time, trembling from head to foot. Then she burst 
into a torrent of wild, convulsive sobs! 

Ah — she ran her hand over his face, stroking his 
wet hair, caressed, soothed, as she would soothe an 
infant. He was hers now — hers — alone! He was 
dead — he was dying — and soon, very soon, she 

would join him — and then She lifted her 

face; it shone white and radiant! They would en- 
ter the great Beyond together — always together! 

[77] 


C6c gitrengtft 

There would be no vexed questions raised — no 
worry — no trouble — no fears, only peace and eter- 
nal content I 

Reminiscences — memories of her short, happy 
life came swarming back upon her. The one dream 
of her heart rose before her mind, in startling de- 
tail. How — a wonderful Prince should one day 
come for her — and she would sail in his enchanted, 
white-winged ship, out through the Inlet — to the 
open sea — to the great world outside — the world of 
her dreams! 

Incidents — apparently trifling, at which she had 
wondered uneasily during the past weeks, were 
brought home to her, with sudden significance. The 
little clock he had given her — how, that first night, 
she had put it on the mantel in her room, before 
she crept into bed. Then later, how she had gotten 
up — held it in the moonlight — letting her hands 
run along its smooth glass surface. Then — how 
she had put it on her stand, with the candle 
by the bed, and later in the early morning how she 
had stretched forth a trembling hand — and placed it 
on the pillow beside her, going to sleep at last with 
the music of its regular harmony in her ear. 

A warm, thrilling happiness rose within her. Al- 
ready her soul seemed to be rising with his on the 
crest of a wave, listening — trembling — waiting; 
then, as disembodied spirits, they were floating 
through infinite space — joyous, exalted, trium- 
phant! It was all plain now! Fate had taken out 
of their hands what had been about to hurt them 
so! 


[78] 


flDf tfje JOcab 

An exquisite smile played about her beautiful 
face, as she gazed, transfigured, into the great Mys- 
tery, that seemed within touch of her hand. She 
bent over him again, raising his head toward her 
as they swayed and rocked in the storm. 

too, am not afraid to die,” she said aloud, 
then as her eyes sought the black, raging waters, a 
long, convulsive shudder ran through her and she 
clung closer to him. ‘‘Only — let it come swiftly,” 
her eyes closed, and she rested her head upon his. 

Suddenly above the roar of the waters and the 
sharp, short cracks of thunder, a voice came to her, 
from out the inky, blackness of the night: 

‘‘In God’s mercy — are they there?” 

Margy sat rigid, her face tense and bloodless, her 
eyes almost starting from their sockets. Presently, 
through the foaming waters, in a lurid flash of 
lightning, she saw the set, stern face of Robert 
Norwood bearing down upon her. She felt herself 
lifted — then sank into unconsciousness. 

When she opened her eyes she was lying on soft 
cushions, and Uncle Lee’s arms supported her head. 

For a moment she was dazed and looked wildly 
about her. She saw Robert’s agonized face bend- 
ing over her, and across the little launch, on the op- 
posite side, Douglas was watching her, with hope 
and fear tremblihg in his eyes. 

She smiled faintly at him. 

“I did it — somehow!” 


[79] 


Cfte ^tttnstb 


CHAPTER V 

'A SURPRISE 

next morning dawned dear and perfect. A 
deep stillness pervaded t!ie breakfast room at 
Glen Haven, and the glitter of the old silver and 
glass was tempered by a haze, which diffused the 
soft afterglow of the storm. 

Louise Lloyd and Alfred Mayer regarded each 
other across the empty table. Maggie, enveloped 
in the folds of a white apron, stood by, stiff and 
motionless as a statue. 

‘‘Julie — where is Julia?” Louise inquired of her. 

“She had breakfast a couple of hours ago,” was 
the sullen reply. “I think she went for a ride.” 

“It seems,” Mayer remarked, laconically, looking 
around at the vacant places, “that you and I are the 
only survivors.” 

“Oh, the night was awful,” said Louise with a 
shudder as she took her seat. “Old Aunt Nancy is 
prostrate — Margy is a wreck! Douglas seems aU 
right, but he looks ghastly. And Julia — Julia is 
furious !” 

“Douglas has carried his joke a little too far, has 
he?” he replied as he buttered a roll. 

[8o] 


Df t^e WitnU 

‘‘Oh, well!” Louise returned with a long-drawn, 
tranquil sigh, “Fm so thankful that it turned out as 
it did — ^nothing else matters now.” 

“Is Douglas able to travel to-day?” he asked 
sharply. 

“He certainly is not,” she replied with spirit. 
“He insists that he is going, but he can’t. What a 
harrowing night for all of us! It was a blessed 
thing that Mr. Blair had the doctor at Gray Rock by 
the time Robert returned with them in the launch. 
Ugh ! I can smell iodoform yet !” 

“The doctor is upstairs now, with Miss Nancy,” 
spoke up Maggie, as she poured the coffee for them. 

“He is?” they asked, quickly. 

“He’s been with her all night — she’s awful bad !” 

“I think we had better all go,” Mayer declared 
with decision, “we can stop in Graydon for a few 
days, if Douglas isn’t in shape — ^but good Lord! 
we’ve got to get away from here !” 

There was a complacency and denseness about 
Louise that was ordinarily a source of amusement 
and raillery to her friends. Although she was 
bright and entertaining, complexities passed over 
her curly, blond head with amazing lightness. 
Mayer looked at her now with a twinkle in his eye. 

“The gale blew all right — eh, Louise?” 

“Let’s not think about it!” she answered gravely, 
“it was horrible — horrible ! No one can understand 
how they escaped. Wasn’t Robert wild? He acted 
like a madman! And Julia! She’ll pay Douglas 
back all right — now you watch!” 

“It’s Douglas’ turn to dance to the piper, is it?” 

[8i] 


C6e ^txtnstb 

he replied absently. “He ought to have had better 
sense than to play a game of this sort with a woman 
like Miss Farwell. She’ll make him bite the dust 

“He has worshiped her for years/’ said Louise, 
looking out on the back lawn. “But I have thought 
myself that if she loves him, and she surely does, 
we all know that — that she ought not to keep him 
waiting. She has some great schemes on foot, you 
know. She brought him down here to explain it 
all to him and to ask him to give her one year 
longer. He refused to consent, thinking that she 
would give in, but she hasn’t — and now ” 

“Oh, he’s meek enough now,” Mayer laughed. 
“He’ll do anything she says! Miss Farwell is not 
a woman to be trifled with. She knows her power, 
and she’ll use it. She will choose rather than be 
chosen, every time. Douglas always was a lucky 
dog!” 

A noise on the porch and the sound of light foot- 
steps in the hall warned them of her approach be- 
fore Julia’s figure, in its close-fitting, black riding 
habit appeared in the arched doorway. Her cheeks 
were flushed with the air and exercise, and her eyes 
were brilliant with excitement. Mayer thought he 
had never seen her look 'more handsome. Her 
long, supple slimness, with its full-rounded curves 
stood out in bold relief in the plain lines of her 
dress. Her derby, set jauntily on her black hair, 
her long gauntlet gloves, her high, heavy boots 
added to the general air of ease and self-confidence 
and conscious power that seemed to radiate from 
her. 


[82] 


£[>f the tOeak 

'^Douglas not down?’^ making a keen survey of 
the room, with an abruptness of manner which took 
small account of their presence. ^‘Has he had 
breakfast, Maggie? No? Get a tray at once.’^ 

As she was hurriedly pulling off her gloves, 
Mayer searched her face quizzically; she smiled 
brightly at him. 

“Well?” she inquired. 

“I was just thinking,” he drawled, “that for once 
in my life I do not envy Douglas Lloyd.” 

She laughed lightly. 

“It was a rather silly performance, was it not?” 
She turned the ring with its great, glittering jewel 
around on her finger. “One usually pays a penalty 
for the willful plucking of unripe fruit. How is 
she — Margy, poor child? Do you know, Maggie?” 

“Mammy Clo won’t let anybody come near her,” 
Maggie replied, as she arranged the fresh toast and 
coffee on a little silver waiter. 

“I met old Dr. Carter in the lane,” Julia said, 
shaking out a napkin and placing it over the tray, as 
Maggie held it ready in her hand. 

“Tell Mr. Lloyd that I wish to speak with him 
as soon as it is convenient.” She gathered together 
her gloves and riding whip and followed Maggie 
into the hall. 

“Her ride did her good,” Louise remarked; 
“she’s quite amiable now.” 

“Yes — with blood in her eye!” Mayer laughed as 
he pulled back his chair. 

“Why — I didn’t notice — ” 

“Louise, my dear infant,” he said, suavely, as 

[83] 


Cfie Sttengtft 

he lighted a cigar and sauntered toward the porch. 
‘‘Maybe — she has an affliction of the eye — who 
knows 

Julia paused by the open window of her bedroom 
looking out on the lawn. How calm and peaceful 
the scene now! The waters lay placid and deep in 
their great cup and lapped against the sand with a 
gentle murmur. Only the long, wide beach, strewn 
with driftwood, rough and torn with the ravages 
of the storm; the broken boughs of trees blown in 
wild disorder; the roof of the old ice-house, with 
its moss-covered, blackened shingles scattered in 
confusion — all seemed to her for the moment but 
the outward expression of the turmoil of her own 
passionate thought and passionate indignation! 

Douglas had indeed carried his joke a trifle too 
far! 

Her mind went back over the scenes of the past 
terrible night! She had stood, with the others, on 
the wharf at Gray Rock, waiting for the return of 
the rescuing party with unutterable anguish and 
agony in her heart. But, as soon as she had seen 
with her own eyes that Douglas was safe, from the 
relief of that instant she had struggled with an 
overwhelming anger ! 

It had robbed the night of sleep and made the 
daylight hateful to her ! The contact with the chill, 
damp air of the early morning, the smell of the rain- 
washed earth, the reckless ride through the wet, 
overhanging trees, the quivering horseflesh, had 
quieted the wild spirit within her, and the first hard- 
ness of her wrath had spent itself. 

[84] 


©f tbt mt^u 

She could think now with a clear mind and a 
steady purpose. Douglas must understand, and 
understand most decisively, that she is not a woman 
to be mocked thus and treated as a child — that she 
had no patience with or sympathy for such a display 
of weakness and selfishness! Arguments between 
them had been futile ; she would go to him and re- 
turn his ring 1 

The events of the last days — the meaning of 
them, the significance of Douglas’ actions, the con- 
sequences upon himself, upon her — possibly upon 
Margy — it was with these that her mind was dwell- 
ing — combining, deducing — now in one way, now 
in another. 

Julia knew that Douglas was a man not easy for 
a woman to resist. Feminine devotion had always 
trailed across his pathway. She called to mind cer- 
tain women they had known, women of gentle 
mould, of superior intellect and purpose, who had 
been attracted to him, and to whose adoration he 
had not been averse. This being so, what would be 
the effect of his selfish, thoughtless strategy upon 
an unsophisticated child, whose mind and heart 
were unawakened, who knew nothing of life or the 
emotions of life. 

That he, Douglas Lloyd, the man she had chosen, 
could deliberately sacrifice this girl for an utterly 
selfish purpose, betrayed a thoughtlessness and ego- 
tism that was almost criminal in its quality. 

And for what? To make her jealous — her — 
Julia Farwell. That he should think she could so 
degrade herself! Jealous! As any silly, whining 

[85] 


C{)e ^tttnstb 

schoolgirl, for whom love represents the only stir- 
rings in the pool of life of which she was ever 
likely to know ! 

It seemed incredible that a man of Douglas’ 
stamina, with his well-ordered life, could throw dis- 
cretion and convention to the winds in such high- 
handed fashion. 

How insulting to her — that he should suppose he 
could make her jealous of this little, helpless, insig- 
nificant girl! 

Julia was sure that Douglas loved her — that in 
his obstinacy and eagerness in attempting to force 
her submission to his will and desire — he had blun- 
dered and overstepped the mark. And he should 
be made to pay dearly for the folly! He should 
suffer for the hours of suspense he had caused her, 
for the pangs of agony she had endured, for the 
petty slights and humiliations of the past weeks! 

'‘Mr. Lloyd says he will see you any time; he’s 
downstairs in the library.” 

Maggie’s voice reached her, and she turned back 
into the room. Her black eyes, which always sug- 
gested intelligent jewels, were hardened now to the 
intelligence of angry passion, and the difference 
communicated itself to every part of her frame. 

Maggie looked about the littered room. "Are 
you all going to-day?” she asked at length. 

"We cannot leave to-day — very well,” Julia re- 
plied absently, unpinning her hat in front of the 
dresser and rearranging her piled-up hair with 
quick, skillful touch. 


[ 86 ] 


©f tfte meab 

Maggie looked at her uncertainly, the sullen mask 
of her face relaxed, her eyes shining. 

‘Tve decided who Til take back to Dalton with 
me,” she remarked, with the air of one speaking im- 
portant news. “You know you told me to be care- 
ful in selecting and to get only the brightest girls. 
Now, this friend of mine — she’s so bright; you can 
hardly tell her from white folks, she — ” 

“Oh, you fool!” 

Maggie stood as one turned to stone. Her face 
took on an ashen hue, her teeth shone between 
parted lips. 

“I beg your pardon, Maggie,” Julia quickly in- 
terposed. “You didn’t grasp my meaning. Color 
has nothing to do with it. I really prefer them — 
not quite so light. What I want them to have is a 
bright mind, quick wit — do you understand? But 
I will explain further — some other time.” 

“Ya-as um,” was the meek reply. 

From the depths of an Indian basket Julia shook 
out a handkerchief and deftly sprayed it from a 
silver-covered green bottle. A sharp, pungent odor 
permeated the room. It was a peculiar, elusive 
perfume, as of crushed roses — like some bewitching, 
oriental essence. She had used it for years ; it had 
never failed in its soothing effect upon her. Doug- 
las liked it also, she remembered now. He had 
said that it was one other distinguishing feature 
that set her apart from other women, with their 
violet and heliotrope and orris-root. As she in- 
haled it, placing the handkerchief against her nos- 
trils, a subtle change passed over her, and her face 

[87] 


C!)e %)tttnstb 

was calm as usual when she turned it toward Mag- 

“Can't I sorter fix your things up? ’ Maggie 
asked, her loyalty triumphant. 

“That is very kind of you — yes, I wish you 
would," Julia replied. 

She found Douglas comfortably ensconced on the 
old high-back mahogany sofa, which he had wheeled 
from its place in the corner, to face the two large 
windows. At her first glance she almost faltered 
in her resolution, and her heart went out to him in 
a great wave of tenderness. His face was as white 
as the pillow on which his head rested. The dress- 
ing and bandages on his forehead emphasized an 
unusual pallor and the general aspect of physical 
weariness. 

As she approached him, however, he turned his 
steel-blue eyes toward her, and unflinchingly met 
her gaze for a full minute. Then she saw that 
these outward signs of surrender and exhaustion 
were at fierce antagonism to the inward rebellion 
and self-will, which was, evidently, still his mental 
attitude toward her. 

With strengthened purpose she threw back her 
head and advanced to his side, believing that now, 
at length, she would rouse him from this mental 
lethargy and restore once more the vibrations of 
their mutual love and sympathy. 

He was the first to speak. “It has taken you a 
long time." His smile was almost grotesque in its 
effort. What a characteristic greeting, she thought 

[ 88 ] 


Df ti)e (CSleak 

to herself ; man-like, he was taking the part of the 
aggrieved one! 

“You have wanted me very much?’^ She had 
no fear of her voice now ; it was very firm and very 
steady. She drew a chair up to the window beside 
him. “The role of so ardent a lover is new to you, 
Douglas, and scarce becomes you !” 

He looked up into her face for a minute. Once 
she thought him about to speak, but he only flushed 
slightly, and his eyes went past her, through the 
open window, to where the ground was covered 
with the brilliant plumage of a blooming lilac tree 
which the rain had beaten into the dirt. 

A long branch of a Virginia creeper, which 
trailed through the old blind, had been broken, and 
the light wind blew its dragging leaves helplessly 
against the upper panes. The restless noise at- 
tracted Julia’s attention. She stood up impatiently, 
and, wrenching the vine loose, threw it out of the 
window. 

“It was — badly broken,” he said musingly. “I 
rather fancied, however, that a woman’s sentiment 
would have kept you from doing that.” 

“There are times when it’s a woman’s mettle that 
counts, and not her emotions,” she retorted sharply. 

With a man’s hatred for a scene he felt in her 
voice the signals of approaching conflict. 

“Well — what is it?” he asked abruptly. 

“Is it possible that you imagine you are inscruta- 
ble, Douglas — that everybody is blind? You can 
hide things from yourself more readily than from 
your friends. Tf there’s anything to be met — meet 

[89] 


cite ^ttengtl) 

it! Meet it at once!’ That is your own little 
maxim — and it is exactly what I propose to do right 
now !” 

He laughed nervously. 

**You have a habit of reaching your points by a 
process of circumvention. In my weakened con- 
dition this morning, if you have anything of im- 
portance to say to me, 1 am relieved to know that 
it will not be smothered in swaddling clothes of rhet- 
oric. If you convey your thoughts to me in plain 
and simple speech — I will try to understand you!” 

As he was speaking, the smouldering fires of 
Julia’s wrath flamed into sudden expression. She 
sprang to her feet, her cheeks ablaze, with a flash- 
ing of her eyes that he had never seen before. 

‘T have something to convey to you that will be 
easier to understand than words,” she said defiantly, 
as she pulled his ring from her finger and handed it 
to him. 

His hand trembled as the great glittering jewel 
lay between them. He looked at her, standing be- 
fore him in the full plentitude of her superb beauty, 
with a kind of wonderment. The color flamed — ■ 
then went in his face, and his keen eyes pierced her 
through and through, as if he would probe down 
to her very soul. The room seemed to pulsate with 
^he silence. He sprang to his feet, setting his lips 
with a quick uplift of his square, clean-shaven jaw. 

‘‘You realize just what you have done?” His 
voice came sharp, concise. 

“Yes.” 

“And you want this to be final ?” 

[90] 


Df tbc (EcUeaK 

“Absolutely.” 

It was Julia’s quick intuition that sounded the 
first note of warning. Somewhere beneath the self- 
poise of her regal assurance there was awakening 
within her incredulity, amazement, horror ! A fear 
— terrible, agonizing — was settling over her heart. 
Was he accepting his freedom — was he letting her 
go? 

‘‘I am sorry that I no longer please you.” The 
common-place words he muttered seemed to her 
to come from a great distance. As she looked up 
at him, standing with a calmness that struck terror 
to her very soul, she paused in speechless amaze- 
ment, and passed her hands across her forehead, as 
if she would wipe out a vision. The room swam 
before her; then she clutched at a chair, but strength 
failed her, and she sank into it, and her head fell 
into her hands, while her mind and heart were lost 
in the shock of inarticulate wretchedness and de- 
spair. When at length she raised her face he was 
gone. 


[91] 


C6e ^tttnetb 


CHAPTER VI 

A LAW OF NATURE 

J ULIA staggered to her feet, groped her way up 
the winding staircase to her room, turned the 
rusty lock in the door, while the blood rushed to her 
heart and her soul hardened within her, in a wild 
abandon of wondering misery. 

What did it mean? 

Could it be true that Douglas, to whom she had 
given the best years of her life and all the love of 
her intense nature, would let her leave him thus — 
without one word ? 

From this thought she drew back as from an 
abyss suddenly opened at her feet. Then she bent 
her head to a hot flush of shame which swept over 
her, which blinded and submerged her. She was 
drinking humiliation and seeing deeper draughts of 
it to come ! 

During the past week she had endured slights, 
listened to the cutting cynicisms of Alfred Mayer; 
she had seen laughing contempt in the eyes of Rob- 
ert Norwood with apparent unconcern, but the hurt 
had been deeper than she had thought. 

Suddenly she broke down and wept as she had 

[92] 


£[>f ti)e meaK 

never wept before, throwing herself on the bed with 
inarticulate cries and sobs, with muttered prayers — 
appeals half-conscious, instinctive, to a God only 
half believed! 

All that day she stayed locked in her room. In 
this great, passionate crisis, many truths were beaten 
into her and she learned them unwillingly. 

She seemed to be seated high on an empty throne 
in a world of ruins that lay mercilessly exposed at 
her feet. In these hours of disillusionment, her 
ideals were degraded, destroyed, lost! She saw 
what life meant — what part love plays in it — how 
dwarfed and withered all things are when pitted 
against it. Her career — her lofty purpose — for 
what are they when the soul is naked and bleeding, 
and exchanges its heaven for hell, and sees its lovely 
visions crumble into dust and ashes? Was it this 
for which she had planned and struggled and 
fought — ah, at what a price, if she must pay, with 
her very life’s blood! 

At length, when the evening darkness was set- 
ting over the earth and she sat shivering by the win- 
dow, she was conscious, indeed, of some profound 
inner change. She seemed to be gazing upon her 
naked soul with the last rag of pride and egotism 
and convention stripped from her. And while her 
very life had been torn from herself, a new and 
larger nature had awakened within her. 

She looked about the room — its panelled win- 
dows, low ceilings — its eloquent, worn thresholds, 
through which life had come and gone! People 
had lived here — had suffered, had hoped and loved 

[93] 


Cfte %itttnstb 

each other — made sweet and sacred all the little de- 
tails of daily living! How many happy, contented 
faces that old looking glass had reflected! How 
many young brides had dressed before it! How 
many baby faces had laughed into it ! 

Yesterday she would have scoffed at such reflec- 
tions as sentimental, but now 

With unconscious stiffening of the hands lying 
on the arms of the chair she asked herself for what, 
after all, is a woman’s real education? What is 
her supreme attainment? Aye — to be loved — to 
be the daily need and desire in the life and heart of 
a man whose heart would beat as hers ; this is to be 
crowned — to go through life with her head in the 
stars! 

Suddenly she sat bolt upright in her chair, her 
hands clasped tightly in her lap. How foolish, how 
weak, she had been! She would go to Douglas — 
she would confess her wrong; she would show him 
that she was sorry for her sudden paroxysm of 
fury — she would ask his forgiveness! She would 
bring to bear all her powers as a woman, all her 
influence as an intelligence — she would win him 
back to himself and to herself ! 

This resolution firmly fixed in her mind, there was 
no longer an overpowering sense of loneliness. She 
had been selfish, following a false way; and now 
that her real self had been revealed to her, there was 
a lightness of heart that more than overbalanced the 
old pride and self-will. 

It was characteristic of Julia that her humility 

[94] 


f>f tbt mtak 

and repentance were now as equally intense and 
powerful as her anger and pride had been. 

She began preparations for her bath and evening 
toilette with restless haste. Now and then her mind 
sprang to Margy Preston, and remembered phrases 
of Douglas' rang in her ears : “A rare little crea- 
ture,” ‘‘as tender and sensitive as a delicate plant.” 
Yet in her heart there was only a kind of wistful pity 
for the girl. How absurd that any intruding 
thought of her, should stand between herself and 
happiness — and she resolutely put them aside. In 
this triumph of her love all unpleasant things van- 
ished. There would be no longer any wavering of 
standards; life would never again lose its relative 
values. Henceforth, Douglas would always be the 
master and she the suppliant, and this consciousness 
brought a joy that she had never known before. 

Her thoughts of Douglas were almost savage in 
their tenderness and power! Ah — how she would 
love him I 

She thought now with pride of his iron veracity, 
scarcely human — his loyalty to truth — his hatred 
for sham and pretence. A passionate gratitude for 
his devotion and intense desire to humble herself 
before him were the sentiments uppermost in her 
mind. She would prove her love by throwing aside 
every vestige of her old pride that had been as a 
walled defense around her ; this would be more elo- 
quent to him than a procession of studied words. 

She put on a clinging yellow dress that she re- 
membered he had always loved; its softness and 

[95] 


Ctie 

transparency blending with the richness of her skin 
and the deeper tones in her eyes and hair. 

Between an opening in the foliage of the trees 
without she saw the outline of Douglas’ figure 
against the fading sky, walking with slow, meas- 
ured step down the long beach. He seemed very 
weak and tired, and her heart went out to him in a 
rush of tenderness. 

She snatched a lace shawl and threw it over her 
arm as she hurried from the room. She lifted her 
skirts to escape the high grass, and almost ran across 
the lawn. 

The sweet, subtle odor, with the rustle of silken 
garments warned him of her approach, and he 
turned and faced her. Her fine classical features 
gradually took form in the dusk — all the elegance 
of her dress at last visible — ^the gleam of diamonds 
at her throat. She was all charm and grace, and 
Douglas Lloyd, one of the most fastidious observ- 
ers, was abundantly conscious of it. He could not 
deny that her eyes were very beautiful, especially 
with the tragic note he now saw in them, of fatigue 
and pain. 

“I have been so eager to see you, Douglas,” she 
began. ‘T want — I want to ask you to forgive me ! 
Oh, I have been so wretched !” 

He looked at her at first without apparent emo- 
tion. He noted the stateliness in her attitude, the 
gesture of her hand that spoke a hundred subtle 
things, all those points of social distinction and ex- 
perience which had always marked her out. Then 
the full significance of her words were borne in 

[96] 


2Df tbt mtnk 

upon him, and he knew through what travail of soul 
such a spirit of humility had been born in her! The 
man’s easy gallantry awoke. He lifted her shawl 
from her arm and wrapped it about her shoulders. 

‘This air is too damp for so thin a dress,” he 
remarked. 

Her mind, full of its purpose, returned tena- 
ciously : 

“Did you ever fall from a great height, Douglas ? 
Possibly not — it is not a popular pastime.” 

“I have never attained a height to fall from,” he 
replied. 

“I think each of us carries about with us a mental 
picture of ourselves, don’t you?” she went on. “I 
have always thought of myself as a proud woman — 
proud socially — proud morally — proud intellectu- 
ally. For the first time in my life this pride has 
been overthrown — laid low in the dust ; and, 
stranger still, I am happier to have it so !” 

She smiled and her eyes shone with the transfig- 
uring joy of her surrender. As he was about to 
speak she silenced him with a wave of her hand. 

“Not yet,” she said. “What I have to say I 
must say first. My heart has always fought with 
equal power with my head, Douglas. I, too, have 
a thirst for happiness — for vital, personal happiness I 
I see now that I have been following a false way 
that begins and ends in self. I am sorry, Douglas ! 
I set myself apart for a career ! I wanted to prove 
that which would cause a revolution in the history 
of a whole race of people. I have cared nothing 
for society, for petty triumphs. I have hugged the 

[97] 


Cfte %)txtnQtb 

thought to myself that I was living for a high ideal! 

I felt that it was weakness to yield to you or to 
events — that I must bend and mould them; that by 
masterful will and force of personality I could and 
must control them. 

“I was mistaken. I have been selfish and proud 
and vain, striving for personal glory and distinc- 
tion. Intoxicated with my own ideas, by my own 
self-fed enthusiasm, I have expected you to cast 
everything aside and await my pleasure. Can you 
ever forgive me, Douglas? If I have seemed cold 
and indifferent it has been the coldness of powder- 
waiting for a spark to ignite. At least I have been 
sincere^ — ’’ 

“Sincere, Julia!” he burst forth, turning with 
swift impulse upon her. “Have you hypnotized 
yourself now into this state of repentance — just as 
you've hypnotized yourself for years into the belief 
that you were following a lofty purpose?” 

The color had somehow faded out of his face, and 
his mouth was drawn into a mere line. “I am be- 
wildered — your words confuse me.” He stood for 
a moment with his head bowed deep in thought, and 
instinctively she braced herself for the shock of his 
reproach. “You have an overmastering tendency 
for intrigue. You love the snares of magic, the 
free play of treachery. Now — in this honest mo- 
ment, will you not acknowledge that you have never 
taken an important step without seeming to do the 
opposite thing at the same time?” 

Her eyes narrowed. She fell back a step from 
him. 


[98] 


S)f tbe JiQeak 

*‘No — no,” she protested, faintly. 

‘‘Forgive me, Julia,” he said more kindly. “I am 
overwrought to-day. We will talk of this another 
time.” 

“No! It must be now! Nothing else matters!” 
she declared. 

“You are shivering with cold; we will go to my 
room; there we will not be disturbed. Come.” 

She sank into the chintz-covered chair by the win- 
dow, while he pulled the muslin curtains far back. 
The moonlight streamed in; the far tinkle of cow 
bells were soft in her ears, and the cool, sweet air 
blew into her face. Far below, the river lay wide 
and blue, and above the blue canopy stretched, with 
myriad twinkling stars, in unbroken curve, without 
peak or cliff. Julia’s arms lay each on an arm of 
the chair and the folds of her loose sleeves had 
fallen, revealing the white flesh and rounded out- 
line. Had Douglas been less engrossed with his 
own difficulties her face and form, in its unaccus- 
tomed attitude of abandonment, would have ap- 
pealed to him. But his fight had been as hard as 
hers — and its end was not yet. 

“Julia,” he began, slowly, “you know me well. 
You know that I have no subtle arts. That I go 
straight at a subject or straight away from it ! That 
I shun vague courtesies and smoothness of speech ! 
That I must either keep silent — or speak the naked 
truth.” 

The sudden speech, rough, instant, disconcerting, 
stirred a sharp alarm within her — but she gave no 
heed. 


[99] 


C6e 

“I am not clever in facing perplexities or speak- 
ing in paradox. I cannot conceal ugly truths in 
fine phrases. Since talking with you this morning, 
I have been thinking thoughts that have no begin- 
ning and no ending ! Some things I have scarcely 
dared think about — yet, in truth, I think of nothing 
else !” 

She reached forth and tried to draw him toward 
her. He moved so as to avoid contact with her, 
and threw himself into a chair and buried his face 
in his hands. But she placed her hand upon his 
shoulder — her soul in her eyes. 

‘*1 understand, Douglas. Forgive me, dear ! Oh 
— I have been so cruelly selfish! If you have suf- 
fered because of this estrangement, believe me, I 
have suffered a thousandfold more. But I have 
found myself at last! Can you forgive me? Doug- 
las — look at me !” 

Her voice had the assured ring that he knew so 
well. He drew himself erect and looked at her un- 
flinchingly. 

*There have been no half-lights, no compromises 
with honor in my life. You are clever, Julia, far- 
seeing — and there never was a man who could fol- 
low all the subtleties of a woman’s mental processes 
and divine the truth. I know not through what 
devious paths your reasoning has led you ” 

'It has not been reasoning, Douglas ; it has been 
my love for you,” she interrupted softly. 

"I know you too well,” he went on resolutely, 
"to try to fence with you, had I the art. Your 
quick mind would instantly overleap any elaborately 

[lOO] 


2Df tbt mtak 

conceived effusions — so I will speak the simple 
truth.” 

His face was set in stern lines, and his eyes 
glowed with suppressed fire. As she watched him, 
instinctively, a cold fear was clutching at her heart. 

“Had you yourself been sure of your own heart, 
Julia, no career, however brilliant, would have ever 
come between us. Here, among these strange peo- 
ple, there has been awakened within me new forces, 
new passions, new dreams. It seems as though my 
very soul has been in prison all my life and has 
just burst forth into the glory of living. It seems 
that I have awakened after years of sleep in a new 
world, with its ruins, its legends, its old life, old 
customs, whose very heart and pulse was the hearth- 
stone — the mystic family circle. A new world, 
whose warmth and glow, whose beauty and splen- 
dor fires the imagination, and causes even my slug- 
gish New England blood to quicken into passion 
and its subtle lurements ! Makes me feel that after 
all there is still music somewhere in the heart of 
life!” 

“Ah — I understand, Douglas,” she replied, her 
face aglow — her eyes shining once more. He took 
his wandering gaze from the scene without and 
looked dully at her. 

“You and I, Julia, have always lived in a world 
of make-belief, as children playing with toys ! This 
free, old country takes one back to the past cen- 
turies, when men dared be men — that lived and 
fought, and loved and hated! About the only 
glimpses that we see of real life are contained in 

[lOl] 


C6e @)treit0tft 

the third act of a melodrama. As I look back now, 
it seems to me that I have been a mere dummy — 
obeying the will of others ” 

“Surely, Douglas,” she interrupted in amazement, 
“you do not mean to imply that you have not always 
done exactly as you pleased?” 

“Nominally, yes! But in reality I have simply 
been carrying out plans and schemes which were 
mapped out for me by others. My life has never 
been my own!” 

After a silence she said, quizzically: “I do not 
understand you to-night. You seem to be trying to 
say something and you don’t know just how ! What 
is it, Douglas ?” 

He turned his head with a quick, nervous move- 
ment. 

“Yes,” he answered shortly, his keen blue eyes 
searching her face. “I have been caught up and 
held by a great fact — one of the hidden truths of 
life. Nature’s unchanging law! The Creator of 
this world never intended, Julia, that man should go 
on forever in the rut which his forefathers fashioned 
for him. The law of the attraction of opposites is 
not a myth ! Nature demands change ! Until this 
morning I was bound to you by every known code 
of honor. There was but one course open before 
me. To fly in the face of convention is one thing, 
and to be a contemptible cad is another ! For you 
and I to marry, Julia — aside from our own happi- 
ness, we would be establishing a dead line of simi- 
larity in character and temperament for generations 
to come— which the slow years would unfold — men 

[102] 


£De ti)0 meak 

of little stamina, dull, slow, heavy! This is no 
mere lover's obstacle to be overcome by theatrical 
leaps and bounds." 

“Are you — quite mad?” she gasped, looking at 
him with dilated eyes. 

“I want to live, Julia,” he continued, doggedly. 
“I have resolutely determined to put all these 
thoughts away from me, only to come back to them 
with the certainty of Fate itself I We cannot strug- 
gle long against that which we know in our inmost 
soul is true. These things that strike the very cen- 
tre of life are innate in the human soul — they cannot 
be uprooted! I am no saint or ascetic. I strug- 
gle in earthly ways. This rough and tumble world 
is all I know.” 

“You cannot recant our love, Douglas. You 
cannot kill it. It is a fact! Is my love for you 
but a dead leaf that you can toss it aside?” 

“I hope it is — for your sake,” he answered, 
hoarsely. “After all, Julia, it is a hot-house 
growth — it would not live in the open.” 

Her eyes were devouring his face; not a quiver 
of an eyelash escaped her. He sat perplexed for 
a moment, then suddenly said, in a voice so cold 
and guarded that she scarcely recognized it: “For 
me to give in to you now would be doing you a 
great wrong.” 

Her face went white ; she gasped, and her hand 
went to her throat, fumbling with the lace of her 
dress; she felt that she was choking! Vague sur- 
mises, suspicions that had been protruding them- 
selves into her tortured mind, seemed suddenly to 

[103] 


Cfte @»trenfftft 

take shape and dance before her ! Desperately, she 
fought them from her! In her excitement, she 
rose and began pacing the room with a wild, free 
step. 

am sorry,” he began, uncertainly. 

She stopped before him, and, reaching forth both 
hands, drew him toward her. 

‘‘Ah — then — take me away from this accursed 
place,” she pleaded. 

*‘It is — impossible,” he replied, loosening her 
hands from his shoulder. 

They stood for a moment poised, confronting 
each other — reading each other’s souls. A wild 
light sprang into her eyes. 

“Oh — I know — I know — I know,” she screamed. 
“You, who pretend to be so frank, so open! You 
have been playing with me as a cat plays with a 
mouse! You have not dared speak the simple 
truth! But I know! You want to marry Margy 
Preston! Tell me, Douglas,” she said fiercely, seiz- 
ing his hand, “tell me that this is not true?” 

He held his hand across the bandage on his fore- 
head. 

“Why don’t you speak?” she screamed. “Why 
don’t you answer? Oh, God!” She threw herself 
into the chair and her head fell backward. 

Julia lay for some time with her eyes closed, her 
face white and bloodless, her breath coming in 
quick, short gasps. Douglas stood by, helplessly. 
At length he spoke very quietly. 

“There is nothing that I can say, Julia, nothing 
that you would care to hear. Anything that I 

[104] 


iSDf tbt iL^eak 

might say now would seem to you an effort to ex- 
cuse myself. I make no excuses — there are none. 
Pardon is impossible. It is one thing that no 
woman can ever forgive, I guess.” 

Julia’s mind was leaping quickly from one 
thought to another. She must pull herself together. 
Should she resign him thus at the first threat of 
another’s claim? She must be calm — she must 
think! Thus, she was quickly regaining the out- 
ward composure that was her habit in moments of 
swift experience; and, when at length she raised 
her head, he was astonished at the look of serenity 
on her face. 

‘‘This amazing ability to readjust one’s affec- 
tions must make life quite charming, Douglas,” she 
said calmly. 

“Love is wild and free, Julia — it comes and goes 
at no man’s call ; it cannot be coddled and nursed. It 
has many manners, many entrances ” 

“And many exits,” she flashed. 

“I have struggled as you little know,” he went 
on, tenaciously. “I have fought to free myself. 
But Fate is stronger than 1 1 It may sound abrupt, 
absurd, to you, but it is nevertheless true that I 
have loved Margy from the first moment that we 
met!” 

“No — no — oh, not that.” She fell back and put 
her arm across her face as if to ward off a blow. 
Then she quickly recovered herself. 

“You, who have always prided yourself on being 
a keen business man, without a thread of illusion 
or a fibre of romance in your make-up — do you tell 

[105] 


Cfte %tttnstb 

me such a monstrous thing as that ! Ah, Douglas, 
you are not yourself — you are anybody, anything 
but yourself! You have been dazzled by a pair of 
bright eyes and a set of regular features. Through 
the witchery of this place, the girl has been trans- 
formed into something in woman’s flesh, subtle, se- 
ductive! But she is not what you think she is! 
The aroma of a shadowy past cannot linger! It 
cannot fortify you against her helplessness, her in- 
efficiency; she would fail you in every relation of 
life. How can she fit into the mould which tradi- 
tion, custom and blood fashioned for the woman 
who would be your wife — long before you were 
born ?” 

^'Good Heavens, Julia, smash the mould! Make 
another ! What’s the use of a mould at all. Margy 
is — Margy, that’s all I want her to be! And,” he 
went on brusquely, “I love her. It is no fancy! 
Things have passed very swiftly, very intimately; 
yet I feel that I have known her all my life; that 
she is the one woman who was prepared for me 
before the beginning of time! That she was cre- 
ated to be my Mate ! My manhood has been smoth- 
ered, choked through over-culture ; it has grown in- 
sipid, tasteless, pithy ! Margy will take me forever 
out of the dull circle of my existence ; she will bring 
me into contact with fresh energies of life! These 
mysterious forces of nature — from whence are 
they? We cannot explain them; yet they are the 
power that rules this world ” 

“And ofttimes wrecks it,” she retorted. “The 
doctrine of affinities ” 


[io6] 


£Df tbt QxSeak 

“Bah!” he exclaimed, “I am no fool! Such 
shame is worse than idiocy! But — if underneath 
all this veneer of our life — there still exists in the 
heart and soul of man ideas, longings, which date 
back to the Cave-dwellers, is it not worth while to 
break through if we can and get back close to na- 
ture ?” 

“Douglas ” she faltered. 

“Men would be happier if they dared be men,” 
he continued, doggedly. “WeVe smothered our 
souls long enough! Every man does long for his 
natural Mate — but he dare not say so !” 

“Douglas,” she began again, speaking in strong, 
full tones. “I must save you from this madness! 
Margy! What is she? For what does she stand 
in the iron-clad category of your scheme of life? 
She has a pretty face, the charm and lightness of 
youth ” 

“Oh,” he interrupted impatiently, “you do well to 
name her qualities — for what is she, after all, to 
stand against you — an intelligent, full-blooded 
woman, who can understand at a word, who has a 
knowledge of the world’s affairs, which many a 
high-placed man might well envy. But Margy’s 
power lies in her sweet womanhood — her innocence, 
her purity ” 

“The innocence of ignorance is not purity,” she 
interrupted, scathingly. 

“It is the power of simplicity, of truth, of beauty 

if 

“The beauty of an ignorant child, who smiles for 
the sake of smiling.” 

,[107] 


Cfte %)tttnstb 

There was a pause. Julia,,” a light leaped into 
his eye, ‘T love her — is that not enough?” 

‘^And you owe me — nothing?” she asked evenly. 

‘T am paying you in the best coin that I have.” 

*^And what is that?” 

“By being frank with you — by freeing you and 
freeing myself, so that we can each carry out the 
laws of our own nature! I cannot give Margy up! 
My love for her can never be uprooted! It is a 
part of my very being, my life, my soul! The idea 
of sacrifice for the sake of goodness is a phase of 
sordidness ! This thing of achieving virtue by re- 
fraining from all natural desires places life on a 
purely negative basis. I want to live, Julia! No 
religious twaddle for me! Before this love of mine 
all the law and the prophets are swept away ! What 
I want is positive life! 

“You acknowledge that you have little liking for 
domestic affairs. You must live, vividly, in action 1 
These impulses of to-night would soon grow cold, 
Julia, and you will see that you were right in what 
you did this morning, and that I am right now in 
not taking you seriously. You burned all my 
bridges for me! That, at least, can comfort your 
pride !” he said, tentatively. 

“Douglas, I have no pride, no ambition.” Her 
voice faltered and broke as if the words were torn 
from her in physical agony. “I — love you! It is 
not wise to drive me too hard ! I love you as few 
men are ever loved in this world! I love you 
enough to kill one-half of my nature for you! I 
want to be no more, no less than you want me to 

[io8] 


tt)e 

be ! You must see that this folly is madness ! Tear 
it from your heart, my love^ — take me — take me now 
to the ends of the earth and let me prove that my 
love for you fills my life! I have no pride — see — 
I would plead at your feet! This girl! What is 
she to you? All the conditions of life have con- 
spired to keep you two apart. Only disaster and 
wretchedness and ruin can come to both of you! 
I have so much to give! What can she bring to 
you?’^ 

He regarded her calmly. ‘‘Peace, contentment, 
happiness ! What more can marriage mean ? What 
more can man want?” 

She begged, pleaded, appealed to his reason, his 
conscience. She challenged his honor and played 
upon the memories of the past. Beyond an invisi- 
ble line that he had drawn for himself he would not 
go. All the resources of the woman failed, and in 
a last desperate effort she began to reproach him. 

“So — this is the strength of a man’s love!” she 
sobbed, passionately. “What a fool I have been! 
How have I dared think that you meant what you 
said ! That you loved me, and not your own self- 
ishness! You — Douglas Lloyd — you who have 
run the gamut of all human emotions — you feel that 
this girl, ignorant of the world, inefficient, helpless 
— that she, alone, can lead you into the fullness of 
living! And I, who have never asked a favor of 
anyone, I must find my whole existence a rejected 
gift — thrown back into my face! I have given you 
the best years of my life — all the love of my soul! 
How beautifully you have talked to me of the glory 

[109] 


C6e ©trengtft 

of your love! Your love! Bah! I wish I could 
hate you! But, oh” — the tears sprang suddenly 
into her eyes — ''I love you — I love you! The 
roots have gone down like a mountain’s! I love 
you better than my life — with every drop of my 
heart’s blood! I would love you — though you 
killed me !” 

Her eyes were streaming with tears as she threw 
herself face downward among the cushions of the 
couch, with her arms over her head, while sobs 
shook her! 

He had listened abstractedly to her — hands thrust 
deep into his pockets, pacing the floor with slow, 
firm step, while he looked at her now and then with 
a kind of detached pity. As he passed the mantel 
the smell from a vase of violets brought Margy’s 
fresh sweetness to him ; he paused by the window ; 
she was in the very air he breathed; the soft moon- 
beams thrilled him as the warmth of her smile! 

As he gazed upon the wide, silver path which the 
moonlight threw in straight line across the river, 
his thoughts swept back into the heart of the storm, 
recapturing the wild joy of the moment when he 
felt Margy’s breath upon his face and half heard 
the muttered words which illumined his soul and 
threw the rest of his existence into shadow. At 
the remembrance of it, for the first time in his full 
and varied life, he felt the fine, quickened emotions, 
the fullness of experience which came to him with 
the touch of the woman he loved — in the rage of 
splendid hot blood which surged in him in answer 
to leaping thoughts. 


[no] 


ffl)f tfie mtak 

The muffled sobs from the couch had subsided; 
when he turned back into the room, Julia was sitting 
bolt upright once more with her hands clasped 
tightly in her lap. Across her fine face there was a 
blight that would never be lifted. She seemed to 
have grown middle-aged within the hour. 

'‘You are too strong a woman, Julia,” he spoke 
very kindly, “not to see that any laws we make for 
ourselves are as naught compared to the laws God 
made for us !” 

A faint ghost of a smile played about her colorless 
lips. 

“God !” she repeated. “What has God to do with 
it? Things are as people are! It is not fair to 
pack off everything on God ; it is not God’s responsi- 
bility how you treat me or I treat you!” 

“Your friendship is very precious to me,” he went 
on in a brusque, assured way. “Do I dare ask you 
to forgive me? I have met this thing fairly to 
you — to myself — to Margy! Julia — I love her! 
My heart bounds within me when my mind dwells 
upon the love I can awaken in her! For I have for 
her a feeling so intense, so tender — it has the power 
of detaching me from every other interest in life; 
it has a power beyond my control !” 

He little understood the cruelty of his words. A 
look of torture crept into her eyes; her lips trem- 
bled; two slow tears forced their way down her 
cheek and fell upon the lace of her dress. She rose 
slowly to her feet and reached out her hands, plead- 
ingly. 

“Douglas — I cannot — I cannot give you up I How 

[III] 


Cl)e ^txtnstif 

have I changed? Am I not the same that I have 
always been ? Oh — my love,” she cried in anguish, 
and, as she pressed her hands against her head : “I 
love you! Come with me! Tear this foolish pas- 
sion from your heart! I can forgive anything! 
Forget what has been said to-night; you are not 
yourself! After all, they are mere words ” 

^‘Mere words !” he interrupted, passionately. 
“Yes, but words are deeds — and they tell us now 
that even thoughts are living things! Would you 
have me bind my life to yours by a process of deceit 
and lies? Would it be a kindness to you to lead 
you to the altar and pledge loyalty to you, with the 
vision of Margy’s face continually before me — even 
there? Would it be a simple thing to do? Ah, 
Julia, you cannot tune your harp to this common 
melody! This confession that I have made to you 
to-night would always stand between you and me! 
Between us there would be a chasm that God him- 
self could not span! There is but one thing that I 
dare hope for, and that is that you are generous 
enough — big enough — to forgive me, and to let me 
have that which I prize more highly than I can tell 
you — your everlasting friendship!” 

Her answer was a loud, shrill laugh, whose 
cynic revelry jarred upon his mind and soul ! Then 
the color left her face, and she stood before him as 
stiff and motionless and cold as a marble statue! 
Slowly, as if impelled by a volition not her own, 
she gathered her silken draperies about her and si- 
lently went from the room, leaving him frowning 
heavily at the door through which she passed. 

[112] 


tbt meafe 


CHAPTER VII 

HER OWN PLACE 

T^OUGLAS awoke suddenly from a restless sleep. 

A door was softly opened below him, followed 
by a light footstep on the porch. He was at his 
window at a bound. 

It was Margy. He drew back, and listened. He 
heard her pause for a moment, then step out upon 
the broad sward of low grass. In the dim, eery 
light, she seemed like a wraith, shining in white, 
gliding across the lawn. 

‘'What — in — the — world 

He followed her every movement, impatient at 
the shadows that hid her now and then from his 
direct view. In her arms she seemed to be carry- 
ing something large and heavy, for her slight form 
bent sideways under its weight. As he lost her 
again, he riveted his eyes upon the open space at the 
gate leading into the lane. But she followed the 
little path that wound around the old ice house and 
disappeared. She descended the little hill, startling 
the sleepy frogs, as she stepped from stone to stone 
through the long lush grass. Once across the 
grassy meadow, which was almost covered with 
water at high tide, it was easy walking through the 

[113] 


Cfte §)trengt{) 

open again — and at this point he saw her. He 
watched her enter the clump of pines and climb the 
stile, find her way across the slippery carpet of 
pine needles until she reached the iron fence, which 
marked the sacred spot. 

Douglas laughed under his breath. 

‘The little Pagan!” 

He turned back into the room and looked at his 
watch. It was not yet five o’clock, and only a 
faintest gray glow shone along the Eastern horizon. 

He began to dress with haste, whistling mean- 
while. In his face was the happy glow of tri- 
umphant life and love. 

The frown with which he had watched Julia’s de- 
parture the evening before, had lifted, even before 
her footsteps died away in the distance. Not given 
to subtle introspection, yet as he stood erect and 
threw back his head, squaring his broad shoulders, 
he was acutely conscious that his heart was singing 
a new song. In his quick, decisive way of think- 
ing, he put the past from him, and built up his 
future clearly and steadily. 

His heart leaped within him, as he remembered 
how, for the first time in his life, standing last 
night by the window, open wide to the sea — the 
golden moon shining above the waters in its bare, 
full majesty, and the light wind sweeping over him 
— he had opened his arms to it like a triumphant 
lover, and had yielded himself, heart and soul and 
sense. A strange exultation and content filled him, 
as his mind drew on, until the visions expanded, 
filling all his years and dissolving in infinite space! 

[114] 


tbt sajeafe 

How long” he had stood thus he did not know. All 
the world had been attuned to one supreme har- 
mony — Margy, Margy, Margy! 

He opened his door at last, and treading cau- 
tiously through the silent house, descended to the 
great hall. He glanced into the drawing-room, 
where the quaint old furniture stood in the gloom 
of early morning solemnity — far remote from the 
reign of Persian rugs and Japanese bric-a-brac and 
Oriental stuffs and incense. He glanced at the 
bride of a past century, smiling her changeless smile 
from the cold canvas, as he turned quickly, and 
with precaution stepped out upon the porch. 

He stood still a moment, lifting his face toward 
the sky, drinking in the cool glory of a swift 
Southern dawn. 

As he walked down the lane that stretched itself 
ahead of him, like a mottled gray ribbon, he felt in- 
toxicated, as one drunken with the beauty of morn- 
ing, of whispering pines, of bending grasses, of 
sleeping flowers. 

He passed the gate at the entrance, which had 
long since fallen down; turned sharply where the 
once highly polished brick posts had crumbled into 
dust, and over whose rough surface the Virginia 
creeper and honeysuckle climbed in sweet, riotous 
splendor ! 

He found Margy standing in the midst of a great 
many violets, gazing into the dim recesses of the 
little graveyard, where the thousand shadowy 
places had been peopled by her childish imagina- 
tion, with a thousand terrors. 

[115] 


Cfte ^txtnetb 

He watched her fascinated; the strength of her 
hips held her young body straight — her slight and 
supple waist was as the God of Nature formed it. 

He saw that she had been carrying a large bird 
cage, which now rested upon the deep moss. She 
stooped and picked up the deserted nest from 
among the dead leaves where it had fallen and 
carefully shaped it between her hands. Then she 
opened the door of the cage, and lifting the five lit- 
tle birds, placed them tenderly in the nest, bending 
over them in anxious mother-brooding! Standing 
on tiptoe, she bent down the limb of the crepe- 
myrtle, and fastened the nest securely in its place, 
while the little birds chirped at her, in a hundred 
little creeping notes. Then she opened the cage 
again, and lifting the mother bird, placed her on 
the nest. Margy watched her, as in low, sweet 
tones, she fluttered over her brood, giving out deli- 
cate symphonies of love and joy. 

Next she lifted the father bird, nestled him for 
a moment at her breast, then held out her hand, 
leaving him free upon it. There was a glad little 
sound of shivering wings. She watched him fly 
around the nest, flaunting his brilliant tri-colored 
plumage. Perching on a branch directly above 
it he began to sing, softly at first, in his new- 
found freedom — then gradually burst forth into a 
frenzy of full-throated passion. 

** ‘He sings to the wide world. 

And she to her nest.’ ” 

[ii6] 


a)f tfte taeafe 

At the first sound of his voice, Margy started, 
turning quick, terrified eyes upon him. 

**Oh ! How you frightened me !” 

‘In the nice ear of nature, 

Which song is the best ?' ’’ 

He finished the quotation as he clumsily stepped 
over the tangled undergrowth and found his way 
to her side. 

“I mistook your errand this morning. When I 
saw you come out across the lawn I thought you 
were a young heathen, bringing your morning obla- 
tion for ancestral worship.’’ 

“You saw me?” said Margy shyly, clasping and 
unclasping her hands. 

“Yes — I’ve been waiting for you all night — all 
my life — for a million years!” 

She drew slightly away from him; he came 
nearer. 

“I see you’ve brought them back ?” 

“Yes; they were so unhappy! They couldn’t 
bear to live anywhere but in their own place!” 

There was a long pause. A vast pall of stillness 
seemed to be brooding around them — the weird, 
tense, unfathomable stillness that settles over every 
spot, where the quick and the dead come closest 
together. But it was a stillness vibrant with life; 
the great life of the woods and waste places was 
going on around them. 

A mocking bird was singing to his mate some- 
where overhead in the interlacing branches of the 

1117] 


Cfte Sittenfftl) 

old fir trees, which were touched here and there 
with younger green ; sheltered under a moss-grown 
blackened headstone, in a clump of briars, a rabbit 
nursed her young; in the tangled web of hardened 
vines on the tarnished marble, a thrush fed her 
fledglings; the golden bees murmured among the 
leaves; humming birds quivered in the syringa; 
butterflies frolicked among the roses. 

Douglas drew a long breath. 

*^God!’^ he exclaimed as he threw back his head, 
^*the old world is a good place to live in, after 
all.’^ 

Margy glanced up at him. 

‘'Why do you say that?” she asked. “Of course 
it^s a good place to live in!” 

He looked down into her upturned face; how 
fresh and lovely she was in the searching light of 
early morning. 

“And you are happy in it, Margy?” he asked. 

At his tone and manner Margy flushed rosy and 
turned away, and her hand gripped the low, broad 
branch of a tree. 

“Of course,’’ she said faintly, “why shouldn’t I 
be happy — when everything is so lovely and so 
good ?” 

“Do you know that you are standing in the 
very spot in which I first saw you ?” 

“You must have thought me very childish?” 

“I thought you — very beautiful!” he replied. 
There was a moment’s pause. “How long has it 
been?” he asked abruptly. 

“Only — four weeks.” 

[ii8] 


©f tfte mt^k 

He turned suddenly and faced her, looking deep 
into her eyes. '‘What matter! What matter, 
Margy! A day — a month — a year — a thousand 
years — if we love each other? I loved you that 
first day — I’ve loved you ever since — I’ve loved you 
all my life. But not even a love like mine gives a 
man a right to speak under some conditions.” 

“Are they different now?” she faltered. 

“Different?” he repeated. “Yes — yes, they are 
different — everything is different ! Listen, dear.” 

Although he was striving hard to hold his eager- 
ness in check, yet it vibrated in every tone of his 
voice, with a force that breathed from him, passing 
through her young being, quickening every pulse 
of life. The man’s splendid vitality, for the mo- 
ment, mastered her. 

“Yesterday, Julia broke our engagement, Margy, 
and returned the ring I had given her. Last night 
we had a long talk, and she — she — understands — 
everything. She knows that I love you ” 

“She understands ?” Margy interrupted in uncer- 
tain questioning. 

“She knows that it was all a mistake,” he con- 
tinued, “and she will realize it more and more. 
Julia’s life is given over to great causes; she has 
always stood apart from other women of her age 
and station. We had drifted together — she and I — 
by the intricate conventions, that made up the ma- 
chinery of our life. I had always stood in the 
outer circle of her admirers — scarcely expecting to 
be noticed in the crowd. There were many men 
whom she might naturally have preferred before 

[1 19] 


Cfte Sttrenfftft 

me — richer, cleverer — more desirable. We were 
thrown together a great deal; at first, the indica- 
tions of her liking for me, seemed something too 
lovely to be credible. 

''But it was a mistake — she sees it — and I — 
Margy — I feel as though I had been in prison all 
my life, and that you, dear, have unlocked the door 
— and let me out — out into the world, to see it 
with new eyes — as God meant that we should see 
itr 

With body and soul Margy listened; her breath 
came softer than the zephyrs that idled among the 
roses, clustered around them. 

"We are all part of a mystic machinery we call 
Fate,” she heard him continue. "We must have 
met, dear — you and I — sooner or later. After all, 
the world is no bigger than your little boat when it 
comes to Destiny.” 

Suddenly Margy took a step away from him and 
looked at him. There he was — standing before her, 
in the familiar attitude of her dreams — this prince 
— from the great world, the world for which her 
young heart longed. She dropped her eyes quickly 
and turned away. 

"You are free, you say, but you forget — that I 
am not.” 

"You mean — Robert?” he asked sharply. 

"Yes — Robert j” her voice fluttered a little and 
she looked up in tremulous appeal. In the glance 
she encountered, the vigorous and willful person- 
ality beside her seemed to bring all its force to 
bear upon her. But she resolutely went on. 

[ 1 20 ] 


SDf tbt Witak 

“Robert has my word — and he needs me.’^ 

“It was the word of a child, Margy — you are a 
woman now/’ 

“Yes,” she faltered, a little catch in her voice, 
“it seems that the step is a very short one. For 
I left my girlhood somewhere — out there,” point- 
ing toward the sea, “in the air, in the surging wa- 
ters — in that awful storm — in the blackness of night 
' — in the crash of thunder,” Douglas saw her slight 
body tremble and a long shudder pass through her, 
“out there, my womanhood was born, it seems, with 
its heritage of sacrifice and pain. My life is 
pledged — this happiness is not for me. You are 
free ” 

“Freedom means — only you, dear,” he replied 
gently. 

“It all seems so strange — so bewildering,” she 
went on, moving across the path and bending over 
a grave, a little fresher than the others, around 
which a trim border of violets lifted their modest 
heads. 

Douglas followed close behind her. She put 
back her hair from her forehead with a weary little 
gesture, then both hands fell to her side. 

“But what matter! It seems that, after all, all 
that’s left of us in the end, is a little mound of 
earth, over which the winds blow and the dead 
leaves fall.” 

“Margy — it is not right that your young life 
should be spent in the shadow of this graveyard! 
In perpetual brooding over death and all that it 
has brought to you. It is morbid; you must not 

[I2I] 


Cfie 

bruise yourself against unknowable things. Your 
youth demands happiness, gayety. Come, dear.’’ 

He gathered her hand firmly in his, and together 
they came out from the depths of the cool, damp 
shadows to the edge of the open stretch of beach. 
He heard her soft breathing; the fresh wind 
whipped her skirts about her, but Jinknowing, un- 
caring, she stood beside him, gazfng at the far- 
stretching sea tossing white and green, and touched 
with the gold and crimson of a new day. 

‘‘Margy,” he went on, almost brusquely in his 
tenderness, ^‘look at me! I love you! I love you 
with all the strength of my heart and soul and life! 
I, too, need you, dear. We, alone, cannot break 
Nature’s harmony this morning; each little creature 
— in its own place — happy with its mate. And look ! 
This is the beginning of a new day — see, dear!” 

He pointed toward the East. They stood silent 
as the day came up — a great shining, white jewel, 
set in brilliant blue and gold, its iridescent colors 
shimmering in the sun. They watched as the sun’s 
flaming eye chased away the piled up crags in the 
East beyond the swaying branches of the elms, and 
the twisted boughs of the old pines, penetrating 
into every shade on land and sea, and filling all 
the earth with its light and beauty. It was one of 
those clear, blue days, when the heavens and the 
sea are at peace. 

‘'This miracle of morning, Margy, is no less mys- 
terious than the miracle of love. Turn your face 
with mine, dear, toward the rising sun ! Leave this 
sadness — these graves; let this be the beginning of 

[122] 


mi tbt mtak 

a new day for us — let me lead you into a new life 
where everything will be glad and golden !” 

“Is there such a place?” she breathed between 
parted lips, her face full of the light of youth and 
the rapture of the expectation of life. 

Enwrapped, as it were, by the influences around 
her, of the place^ — the morning’s beauty — the per- 
sonality of the man — his nearness to her — the sweet 
wonder of his touch upon her hand — Margy seemed 
to be passing through a many-colored dream, of 
which the interest and pleasure never ceased. 

“Everything pleads for me, dear — even your own 
heart — for you do love me, and you dare not sjiy 
that you do not! Look about you. Nature is rest- 
ing in strong arms; one can almost hear the heart 
throb of the mighty mother. You must put your 
life in harmony with her, Margy; you cannot ig- 
nore her laws, and not pay the penalty.” 

“I scarcely know — what you mean.” 

Margy paused. Far within she was conscious 
of a kind of tremor. 

“It is all so — mysterious; I do not understand,” 
she said. “You seem to be laying a hand upon my 
heart, and drawing it away from me, in spite of 
myself. But wherever I turn, whatever I say, what- 
ever I think, all things lead me back to Robert’s 
need of me!” 

“But you love me, Margy — you cannot deny it!” 
he flashed triumphantly, looking into her clear-cut 
high-bred face. “I know it — I knew it that night 
— in the storm ” 

“One cannot always live on the crest of a wave,” 

[123] 


CJjc Sitrettgtij 

was the quiet reply. ‘^Robert has only this little 
space in which to toil and struggle. The world is 
yours — ^you can take it. You have money — power 
— everything — he is so poor and helpless. I could 
not be happy to forsake him now. Oh, you don’t 
know, you don’t know ! There are other women for 
you — other hopes — other interests. Robert has — 
only me! We must stand together — he and I — ■ 
among our ruins !” 

They came back to the house in silence. Their 
parting was very simple — just a clasp of the hand. 

But when Margy reached her room she saw from 
her window that he still stood where she had left 
him — straight and strong in the full sunlight. 


[124] 


ttie meaK 


CHAPTER VIII 

A CRUEL CHARGE 


“WELL, that’s all over!” 

^ ^ Margy drew back from the window. 
Her arms fell slowly to her side, as she gave a quick 
survey of the room — turned and went to the bureau, 
shaking down her wind-blown hair. But there was 
a wilful little curve at the corners of her mouth, 
which Mammy Clo would have recognized, and 
about which, from long experience, she would have 
remained discreetly silent. 

She recoiled her hair, and began to straighten the 
room. In a few moments, after she had removed 
the same dress skirt from three different chairs, and 
the room appeared in worse disorder than when 
she began, her mouth relaxed and her full lips 
trembled. With the back of her hand, she dashed 
an unwilling tear that was creeping from under her 
long eyelashes. Then Margy laughed aloud that 
she might not cry, as she threw open the door and 
sped down the hall. 

The ladle with which Mammy Clo was leisurely 
skimming milk on the porch was held for a mo- 
ment, poised in her hand, as she heard Margy’s 
[125] 


Cijc %»tre«0t|> 

light footstep on the back stairs. A deep frown 
wrinkled her brow. Margy knocked the ladle to 
the floor, as she bounded to her side and threw her 
arms around the old woman’s neck. 

‘‘Hello!” 

Mammy Clo disentangled herself with an angry 
gesture. 

“Go rite straight ba’k upstai’s dis minit I W’at yo’ 
mean ” 

“I declare, mammy — I forgot I I forgot all about 
being sick! Why — I’ve been up for two hours!” 

“Fo’ de Lawd, chile, ain’ yo’ nebbe’ gwine tu 
grow up?” 

“But I wasn’t sick, mammy. There wasn’t a 
thing in the world the matter with me — ^honest !” 

Mammy Clo snorted: “Huh! dat’s a lakly tale — ■ 
w’en I seen yo’ wid my own eyes, lyin’ da’, bruised 
black en blue en as w’ite es enny d’ad co’pse!” 

“I just needed a little petting, mammy, and you 
gave it to me^ — bless your dear old heart! I’m all 
right now — truly I am!” 

Mammy Clo shuffled down the steps, motioning 
to Margy with a grotesque twist of her elbow, her 
arms filled with buckets and pans. 

“Kum ’ere, honey.” 

Margy followed to the door of the white-washed 
dairy. Taking a small earthen pitcher from out 
the cool running water, Mammy poured its contents 
into a glass and handed it to her. 

“It’s fin’ es silk,” she said, smacking her lips. 
“Drink it, honey, drink it eb’ry drap! Mammy 
saved it a-pu’pose!” 

[126] 


©f tfte JOeafe 

Margy hesitated. ''Have you saved cream 
enough for breakfast? You know Aunt Nancy 
said 

"Cream enuff — fer dem fo’ks! Dey won’ know 
ef’n it’s cream er cida’.” 

Margy drained the glass and handed it back to 
her. 

"I think ril get Prince Albert and go to Beech- 
wood for breakfast. Wouldn’t that please Robert, 
Mammy ?” 

"Hu — um! I dunno su’ much e’bout dat,” with 
a slow shake of her head. "I dunno ef’n Marse 
Robert’ll be glad tu see yo’ — er no! He’s bin 
powe’ful peste’ed ” 

"Not glad to see me at Beechwood? Mammy — 
you’re crazy!” cried Margy. 

"Not s’ crazy es yo’ mout think! Marse Robert 
ain’ got no use for Yankees!” she added significant- 
ly. "Name er de Lawd, Maggie, how long yo’ 
gwine to be totin’ wate’ ?” turning sharply, as Mag- 
gie approached on her way to the house with the 
inevitable pails of water. 

Maggie lowered the buckets, and stood looking 
at them sullenly. "With no conveniences at all, it 
takes a great deal of time and strength, to prepare 
four baths. My back is tired — Heaven knows 


"Here — let me help you,” said Margy quickly, 
lifting one of the buckets. 

"Put dat bucket down!” screamed Mammy Clo, 
"you — totin’ wate’ — wu’kin’ lak er common nigge’ 

[127] 


Cfte %txtnstb 

— er w’at's wuse, lak po’ w’ite trash! Don' yo' 
ebbe’ let me ketch yo' at it ergin — er Fll — Fll " 

“What will you do, Mammy?” laughed Margy, 
as Maggie entered the house. 

“Fll kill dat no-count Maggie, dat’s what Fll do. 
She’s gittin’ too biggity, enyhow, wid all ’er high- 
fu-lu-tin’ talkin’ en crazy doin’s I” 

“I just wanted to be doing something,” said 
Margy. “But Fm going to Beechwood.” 

“Yo’ go speak t’ Miss Nancy, w’ile I git Prince 
Albe’t fo’ yo’. En put on yo’ hat, case de sun’s 
gwine t’ be hot.” 

Margy entered Aunt Nancy’s room and tiptoed 
softly across the floor to where the gentle old lady’s 
wrinkled face lay embedded among snowy linens. 
Her figure was stretched pathetically frail and slight 
under the counterpane. 

“Is that you, Margy?” she inquired, lifting a 
thin blue-veined hand from the sheet. Margy 
dropped on her knees beside the high-tester bed, and 
put her arms tenderly about the white head. 

“Did you think it was my ghost, dearie?” bend- 
ing a soft cheek against her forehead. 

“How is my little girl?” 

“All right,” Margy answered brightly. “I just 
had a good shake-up. And I’m going to ride over 
to Beechwood to breakfast. You don’t mind, do 
you ? I haven’t seen Robert in ages I” 

Aunt Nancy’s piercing black eyes looked hard at 
Margy as she gently stroked her cheek. 

“Are you going alone, dear?” she asked after a 
silence. 


[128] 


tbt mtau 


‘‘Yes.’^ 

“I’m — Fm glad of that. You can stay all day — 
and bring Robert home with you to tea.” 

“Will you be down if I do?” 

“Yes; I feel much better. But — oh, Margy, my 
precious child — Fve been so worried — so troubled !” 

“Troubled?” Margy repeated uneasily, “what 
troubles you now. Aunt Nancy?” 

“Just one of those — troubles of mine, that never 
happen, I guess. You are happy, aren’t you, dear ?” 

“Happy? Oh, yes, Fm happy. How could I be 
unhappy?” Margy smiled as she kissed her and 
fondled her face. 

“Dear little Margy! You can go now — give 
them my love and tell them how well I am going to 
be!” 

Margy sprang lightly upon Prince Albert’s back 
and galloped down the lane. 

“Happy!” she repeated aloud, speaking to her- 
self, “I will be happy ! We’re going to Beechwood, 
Prince — to Beechwood — oh, see — ^there’s a black- 
bird — see it balance itself on its wings against the 
wind, and sing as it poises! It has a nest, too, 
somewhere! How fresh the air, Prince, how clear 
the sky! We’re going to Beechwood, old fellow! 
I want you to take me faster than you ever have — 
even when your legs were young, for — I feel — • 
afraid. Prince. It’s absurd to be afraid — wait — • 
hold ” 

Margy drew rein suddenly in front of the dilapi- 
dated overseer’s house, at the side of the lane’s en- 
trance. She dismounted, leaving the faithful old 

[129] 


Cfie %tttnetb 

horse standing free, and ran lightly through the 
yard, brushing the high weeds from before her feet, 
as she ran. The house loomed black, forbidding; 
she rushed through the open door into the hall, up 
the staircase, which creaked and tottered under her 
step, and stopped short before a door that was 
closed. 

Margy paused a moment, then gently pushed it 
open. The room had been used as a playhouse, and 
all over the floor lay the scattered relics of her van- 
ished babyhood. She stood very still on the thresh- 
old, trembling lips pressed closely together, as she 
surveyed this sanctuary. How well she knew every- 
thing; the toys, the bits of broken pottery, the dis- 
membered dolls — were all just as she had left them, 
and covered with fine dust as with a veil of illu- 
sion. She stepped carefully across the room; there 
was her little chair and the doll’s bed that Robert 
had made for her. 

Margy ’s eyes filled; she picked up the bed and 
from the center of the tumbled sheets, lifted a long 
chain of tiny shells. She placed the bed back upon 
the floor, and ran her fingers along the length of 
the chain — until they were stopped by a rough, un- 
couth, wooden clasp, upon which was carved in 
crude letters, “Margy.” Robert had given her this 
toy when she was ten years old. There had been 
nothing in her young life, not associated in some 
way with him. Margy threw the chain over her 
head, and fastened the clasp on her breast. Then, 
she stole away, closing the door reverently, as if 
upon the spirits of the dead. Thoughts stirred 

.[130] 


©f tfte mtak 

within her that were too serious to unfold them- 
selves in her youth. Down the steps — out into the 
open ; she felt relief when in the saddle again. 

‘We’re going to Beechwood, Prince,” she con- 
tinued her broken soliloquy, “to see Robert ! 
There’s nothing for us to fear — here in our own 
place — is there? Your run is almost over, old fel- 
low” — affectionately stroking his ragged mane — 
“mine has scarcely begun! I am afraid, but only 
of myself! And it’s silly — childish — to run, isn’t 
it? Ah! there’s Robert. He’s waiting for us! 
Dear Robert ! He shall be happy, too. Prince. He’s 
waiting for us !” 

Robert Norwood was standing on the gravel 
walkway in front of the house, nervously shifting 
from one foot to another, as he beat a tattoo on 
his high riding boot, with the end of a slender whip, 
and crushed his hat in his hand. His fair forehead 
seemed very white under his long black hair. Deep 
frowns wrinkled his brow, his eyes burned with 
smouldering fires, overshadowed by a sadness he 
was struggling to subdue. A heavy mood was 
upon him — the restless mood of longing and dis- 
content ! 

Around him, stretched the wide acres, the home 
of his forefathers. He let his eyes sweep the broad 
horizon for a moment, until they rested among the 
turrets and chimneys clustered at Glen Haven. The 
frown deepened. Voices of desire, of ambition, 
were calling to him, as the vision of some buried 
thing he had one day known and lost. 

As he caught sight of the old horse and its rideij 

[131] 


Cije %>trett0t& 

jogging through the heavy sand of the lane his 
erect figure stiffened imperceptibly. He straight- 
ened his hat in his hand, placed it carefully on his 
head, and pulled it far down over his eyes. With 
hands clasped behind him, he walked slowly to- 
ward the barn. 

Margy had seen him before he saw her, and now 
she turned off from the lane, and circled the barn, 
coming around the end abruptly just in front of 
him. 

''Hello!” she said brightly. "We’ve come to 
spend the day — Prince Albert and 1. We thought 
we’d surprise you!” 

No conventional smile of welcome greeted her, 
but his gaze fixed itself on her face. Margy’s quick 
intuition shrank from what she saw in his eyes, 
and for the briefest moment answered his look with 
one of wondering dismay. 

"You have surprised me!” he said curtly, with- 
out a movement toward her. "I am pleased to see 
that you have recovered.” 

"Oh— I’m all right!” 

She paused a moment, then continued somewhat 
hurriedly. "And I want to thank you the first 
thing, Robert, for myself and for — Mr. lioyd 


"Mr. Lloyd need feel under no obligations to 
me!” 

"You saved his life ” 

"Yes! I — saved — his — life!” he returned be- 
tween clenched teeth. 


[132] 


2Df tjje $Qeab 

Margy forced the gaiety back into her voice, and 
made a piquant little face of affected terror. 

''Oh! How savage you are! Come here, Rob- 
ert,” she coaxed. "Help me down! Tm going to 
stay all day!” 

"Susie will be glad to see you,” he replied, as 
he held out his hand and jumped her lightly to the 
ground. "I won’t be here.” 

"Robert!” 

"Margy!” he wheeled upon her, throwing the 
rein loosely back. "Every time I have seen you 
since that man came here it has touched the raw 
nerve in me ! I am in no mood for laughter. You 
have made me the laughing-stock of the county, 
and put your name upon the tongue of every scan- 
dal-monger in it !” 

Margy’s wide-stretched eyes looked at him in be- 
wildering amazement. Then the color left her face 
and she fell back a step from him. 

"Wh-what do you — mean?” 

Robert came nearer to her, hands clenched hard, 
anger and bitterness flaming in his face. 

"I mean — that you are my affianced wife, and 
as such, you shall not put me to ridicule or your- 
self to open shame! You are the talk of 
the county, and, what’s more to the point, 
Margy, you have brought it upon yourself. That 
man, Douglas Lloyd, comes down here engaged 
to another woman, a woman of his own world ! She 
is with him, and yet they are never seen together, 
while you and he go everywhere! Haven’t I seen 
you hang on every word that fell from his lips? 

[133] 


Cfie gitrcngtf) 

People have talked — they were bound to talk! You 
may as well try to dam the flood as to keep people 
from putting their own interpretation upon things 
they see!” 

Margy had not lowered her eyes. Amazed won- 
der, incredulity, anger, gave place gradually to a 
wistful pity as she read the deep marks of suffering 
on his face. She looked at him for a moment with- 
out speaking, then she smiled. 

‘‘Robert — dear Robert! You don’t understand 
” she began. 

“I do understand! I understand too blamed 
well!” 

He broke off and stood waiting with a half an- 
gry, half sneering look. The scorn in his voice 
struck her like a physical blow. 

Dark blood surged in Robert Norwood’s face, 
and the somber color gave him an almost brutal 
look. He made a quick step forward and his hand 
closed violently over hers. 

“What is it — I don’t understand?” 

His eyes held hers defiantly, and she made no 
reply. He released her with a short laugh. 

“Why — don’t you say something?” 

“I have nothing to say,” Margy answered sim- 
ply. “Except — except that I am sorry, Robert !” 

“Sorry!” he blazed at her. “Sorry for what? 
Sorry for me? You’d better be sorry for yourself! 
In his agonizing pursuit of pleasure, of new sensa- 
tions, that man has taken advantage of you, Margy ! 
You’re a new type to him — a new toy ! Doubtless 
you are the first Southern girl he has ever met! 

[134] 


SDe t&e JOeaK 

His mind has become steeped with the glamour of 
the past civilization of our old Colonial days, which 
means about as much to us now, as the moth-eaten, 
silken rags in our attics ! To him the situation has 
held all the elements of romance; the kind of ro- 
mance that gives a passing pleasure and leaves no 
memory! You have been guarded, Margy, shel- 
tered from all knowledge of evil; you were unpre- 
pared to comprehend what he has been saying to 
you — or what he meant I” 

As he was speaking Margy fumbled with the col- 
lar of her waist and jerked it open. Her slender 
neck quivered. She straightened up — white, rigid, 
breathless. 

‘‘He knows all the thousand subtle passions of 
the brain and lusts of the mind and desires of the 
body,’’ Robert went on. “How easy for a man so 
gifted in human emotions, to capture an innocent 
girl! He has — I doubt not, been prating to you, 
about Chance and Fate and Destiny — lessons well- 
learned, and repeated many times with practiced 
success! Of the cold problem of truth and honor, 
his glib tongue would be less skillful.” 

“You don’t know what you are talking about!” 
she found her voice at last. Something within her 
was being deeply aroused, at the same time a dull, 
aching pain was clutching at her heart. 

“He is not engaged to Miss Farwell. She broke 

it off herself. He says it was all a mistake ” 

“Then — why does she want possession of Glen 
Haven?” he flashed. Suddenly remembering, as 
he saw her look of shocked surprise. “Oh, I for- 

[135] 


C6e ©trengtj) 

got,” he stammered. ‘^She asked me to say nothing 
about it. She bought it soon after they came, but 
it was understood that she was not to take posses- 
sion of it for a year. I — I thought — by that time 
— oh, well, no matter! However, she phoned me 
yesterday to bring the papers to her to-day. That’s 
what takes me — to the Court House.” 

‘‘And — Miss Far well — has — bought — Glen Ha- 
ven !” Margy faltered under her breath. 

“She has,” he repeated. 

Margy’s face was very pale and her lips were 
trembling, but she dropped her eyes to hide them 
from him. The pressure of countless feelings was 
upon her, holding her dumb. A slight shiver passed 
over her. Robert’s stern angry face relaxed as he 
watched her. She looked very young — very child- 
ish; the silky growth of her gold-brown hair close 
to her neck and around her forehead, was soft as 
an infant’s. For the first time his eyes fell upon 
the chain of shells about her neck and the clasp on 
her breast. His quick mind went back over the 
swift years; he saw the happy little playmate, with, 
bright dancing eyes, following at his footsteps, 
eager to do his bidding, then a slender young girl, 
with gold-brown curls and shy gray eyes, seeing 
only the beautiful and true — and the grave trem- 
bling woman, who stood so helplessly before him 
this morning. 

Suddenly he broke down. 

“Oh, Margy, forgive me!” he cried. “I — I — 
great God, child! You little know the tortures I 
have endured ! These days I have lived in a vague, 

[136] 


SDf tlje CQeafe 

non-understanding despair — lonely — lonely — God ! 
No one can probe the depth of that loneliness !” 

He threw his heavy hair from his forehead with 
a quick gesture. 

“My very life has been tom from its roots! The 
blue sky — the tossing sea — our sloping green — the 
stretches of beach — the frothing waves — these beau- 
ties of God’s handiwork, that used to speak to me 
in a thousand happy voices, were merely sky and 
beach and grass, that’s all! The sea gulls, whirl- 
ing through the air on wide-spreading wings — were 
only gulls!” 

Robert’s head sank low upon his breast. Margy 
was silent, clasping and unclasping her hands. At 
length, he raised his face and stood proudly before 
her, and his voice was firm and steady. 

“But, why should I rebel, that to prove an old 
adage true, I am of the third generation — in my 
shirt sleeves ! It is my misfortune, that I was born 
with the love of ease in my blood — of rare wines — 
of beautiful women! I am in my shirt sleeves, 
Margy — but my muscles are strong, and it has all 
come about, not by dishonor or shame, but upon 
the glory of lost battles!” 

He stood erect, his rightful heritage upon him, 
rich blood coursing through his veins, as though 
generations of dead ancestry had reached their high- 
est attainment in him! 

“But, it is not of myself, that I am thinking to- 
day! It is your happiness, which is more precious 
to me than anything on God’s green earth! My 
heated imagination has pictured you in woven 

[137] 


Cftc ©trcngtft 

visions of horror, entangled as in a spider’s web! 
Tell me, Margy,” he spoke with a brusque fierce- 
ness she had never heard before, and a dangerous 
light leaped into his eyes which were glowering at 
her from under darkened brows. ‘^Tell me — has 
this man dared speak of love to you ?” 

With every word he had uttered the ache in 
Margy’s heart had grown heavier. Her mind had 
been stumbling blindly for some turning lever, 
which would guide her through the confusion of 
these new sensations, but she could not find it. She 
tried to speak, from time to time, but her throat 
seemed full to bursting and her stiff lips would not 
form the words, for Margy was afraid, not of the 
man, but of the tumult in her own heart! Robert 
waited, determined to force her from this strong- 
hold of silence in which she had entrenched herself. 
She spoke at last, and he bent closer that he might 
catch the words. 

‘T want — to be — honest — with you. He told me 
— that he — loved me,” she confessed. 

“Did he ask you to marry him?” 

Robert’s words came quick, sharp! Margy 
swayed backward and tottered as though about to 
fall. Her hand covered her eyes an instant, then 
she turned and threw her arms over the pommel of 
the saddle of the old horse, and her head, with its 
loosely waving hair, fell between them; hot, scald- 
ing tears streamed down her face. 

“He told — me that he — loved me,” she sobbed. 
“He ” 

His face flamed. 


[138] 


Df tttt OOleak 

“Good God!” 

At the outburst in his voice Margy^s sobs 
stopped instantly, she wheeled toward him, scarlet 
flooding her face, her eyes flashing through tears. 

‘‘Oh!’' she panted, “how — how dare you! You 
have no right to speak to me like this! You have 
no right to try to put shame upon me !” 

There was no quiver in her voice now. She re- 
garded him with a clear, fearless scrutiny. The 
dazed horror of the revelation that he had tried to 
force upon her seemed to stiffen the very soul 
within her, 

“You have no right to accuse me of things 
that are not true! You shall not say such things 
to me! Of course he wants to marry me! But I 
have been true to you, Robert — true in every word 
— every thought ” 

“A — ha!” mocking anger blazed in his eyes, and 
a grotesque smile curled his lips, “you can’t say it, 
Margy! You can’t lie!” 

She choked slightly, and her lips trembled. 

“We can’t help — what we thinks — sometimes! 
Thoughts will come, whether we want them or not ! 
But I would have been true to you, Robert. I 
would have married you — and now — I will never 
marry you or — any one — I ” 

“I don’t want your pity, Margy,” he interrupted 
brusquely. “You need not have tortured yourself 
by trying to be true to me — because you are sorry 
for me. I don’t need your pity!” 

Even as he was speaking in the silence of his 
brain there had crept a first suggestion of the truth. 

[139] 


Cfte ^trengtft 

Conflicting thoughts crowded upon him. He 
searched her fresh, unravished face, over which 
passion and pain had left no marks as yet, with a 
new purpose — searched unmercifully for the trail 
of another — and as he found it, he cursed the 
treachery of his own soul! 

“In God’s mercy, Margy,” he faltered uncer- 
tainly, “tell me — tell me that you do not love this 
man !” 

Margy whitened to the lips, her slight figure 
trembled, but she saw that she could not deceive 
him and remained silent. 

At last he realized the situation; at last under- 
stood the strength of the forces that had been un- 
loosed. He looked at her with the passion of un- 
derstanding. His tall, well-built figure, with its 
clear-cut contour and deep-set eyes, now held a 
touch of the tragedy of life — which seemed to be 
marking ineffaceably his body and spirit. He 
stepped up close to her and his hand gripped the 
soft flesh of her arm. 

“We sons of the old South, Margy, still hold 
fast to some traditions, and one is, that our lives 
are of infinitely less value than our honor! If Doug- 
las Lloyd has hurt you — put a blight upon your 
young life — I will kill him like a dog !” 

Margy shivered. That it was no idle threat, no 
empty oath, she knew well. 

“For there is no law of God or man,” he went on, 
“no respect for decency, no fear of consequences, 
that ever restrains a man of his calibre, from do- 
ing anything that they want to do ! But, by Heav- 

[140] 


S!)t tbt mzak 

en the black eyes blazed under their bent brows, 
‘‘he dares too much when he crosses the path of a 
Norwood !” 

“Robert,” she cried in wild appeal, “I beg— I 
pray you ” 

“I have told you what this man is,” he inter- 
rupted, not heeding her. ‘‘He has made a play- 
thing of you ! It was an insult for him to ask you 
to marry him I Is it a compliment, that he should 
suppose that you were ready to fall into the arms 
of a passing stranger, on a few weeks’ notice? It 
is another display of his conceit ! You have fallen 
in love — with love, Margy I This man comes in a 
guise from the great world outside — the world of 
your dreams! As an enchanted Prince, he has rid- 
den up to your secluded, sheltered Southern home ; 
and it is not the man that attracts you Margy — but 
the wider life, the man holds out to you! You are 
fitted in no way to reckon with his world, Margy, 
or with the women of his world. They live and 
have their exquisite being in an atmosphere, far re- 
moved from this wilderness life of ours ! Douglas 
Lloyd cares nothing for our traditions! He sees 
only beauty in our desolation ; his aesthetic faculties 
are stimulated by our picturesque ruins !” 

Margy listened with dilated eyes, watching him 
in very sickness and faintness of soul! Her eyes 
looked at him in an agony of appeal — as a child, 
who wants to be assured that they are not in the 
wrong. But the inflexible look on his face, made 
her heart sink! Although there was no yielding 

[141] 


Cl)e S>trengtfi 

in his tone, it was full of compassion as he con- 
tinued : 

‘‘Remember, Margy, I am not pleading for my- 
self! You say, that you will not marry me — then 
keep yourself free, dear. Keep these hands, these 
lips, your tender little heart — your sweet woman- 
hood — pure and unspotted from the world — and 
from all men! Keep them for the man you will 
some day love ! It is for your happiness only. You 
could not love a man like Douglas Lloyd — could 
you, Margy?” 

Margy’s nerves were tingling; she crossed her 
arms above her head to calm them. 

“No,” she sobbed. “I’d hate him — I’d hate him, 
if he were — like that — as you say. But — do you 
know — what he is?” 

“Do you?” he quickly challenged. 

Margy’s arms came down. Suddenly her manner 
changed; she moved away from him, drawing her 
slight body up to its full height, her eyes shining, 
she looked unflinchingly into his face. 

“I know — I know — what my heart tells me! I 
want no other proof !” 

She tore the chain of shells from her neck and 
threw it at his feet. 

“You have been so — cruel to me— this morning! 
I am going — ^home !” 

She swung herself back into the saddle again, 
and as she turned the old horse’s head, with a sob- 
break that seemed to wrench her very soul, she 
cried : 

“I never want — to see — your face again !” 

[142] 


£Df tift 

Robert’s face worked convulsively ; he sprang to- 
ward her. 

^‘Margy!” 

But he was too late. She was moving across 
the lawn. The shadow of the old horse flew in the 
vivid sunlight, ahead of her, like a great black mon- 
ster, leading her on. As she passed through the 
gate, Robert saw, that the long tendrils of the over- 
hanging vines, struck her on the face and neck and 
shoulders. But Margy sat erect, and galloped 
wildly down the lane. 


[143] 


^ttenetb 


CHAPTER IX 

THE POWER OF LOVE 


r^OUGLAS LLOYD’S substantial figure filled 
the doorway of the kitchen. Mammy Clo 
stood in the center of the room and looked at him 
out of the corner of her eye. She was nervously 
wiping her hands on the end of a checked gingham 
apron. 

‘‘Yu’ ain’ got no call t’ be worryin’ dat chile !” 

Douglas laughed easily in a fruitless effort to 
dispel the hints of suspicion and distrust, that he 
saw reflected so clearly on the sharp old face. 

“And you won’t take a message to her for me ?” 
he asked pleasantly. 

“Naw — dat I won’!” 

Mammy turned sharply on her heel and rolling 
her sleeves above the elbow, sat down by the table. 
Taking a large pan of potatoes on her lap, she be- 
gan to pare them. Douglas lingered good-na- 
turedly. 

“Did you say that she went to Beechwood this 
morning?” 

“I didn’ say!” was the short retort, as she threw 
a pared potato into an empty pan, and picked up 
another. 


[144] 


2Df t6e COeak 

“Mammy Clo — I wish that you were more 
friendly toward me !” Douglas ventured again. 

Mammy’s hands were suddenly arrested in their 
swift movements; holding the knife and potato 
poised in front of her, her old eyes flashed at him. 

“I ain’ friendly t’ no Yankee dat wus ebbe’ bo’n !” 
she snapped. “Dey ain’ nebbe’ made not’in’ but 
trubble fer us — en dey nebbe’ will ! I ain’ axin’ no 
favo’s o’ yo’, is I ? Den yo’ let us alon’ ! Ma’gy’s 
in ’er room — on she gwin’ to stay dar! She wen’ 
ridin’ off dis mo’nin’, — happy, lak she allers is, — - 
en — presen’ly, — I looks out, — en here she cum ba’k, 
— ^hair flyin’ en cryin’ lak ’er heart wou’d buss ! I 
tak’ ’er rite upstai’s, — I does, — en put ’er t’ bed, — 
she mou’nin’ en cryin’ : ‘Mammy — I wish I wus 
d’ad! Mammy, I wish I wus d’ad!’ I sat by ’er, 
— en by en by she drap t’ sleep, — ti’ed en wo’n out, 
— en yo’ jest let ’er be !” she ended defiantly. 

“Would you mind telling me what connection I 
had with all this?” Douglas asked, in genial, ex- 
pansive humor. However, he had listened to her 
recital with strained, anxious attention. 

“ ’Twa’n’t not’in’ at Beechwood dat hu’t ’er !” 
Mammy snorted suspiciously; “dey lob de groun’ 
she wa’k on ! She ain’ nebbe’ bin lak dat — befo’ — 
yo’ all cum ’ere!” she added, with significance, “en 
yo’ jest let ’er be!” 

Douglas took his dismissal finally, and retraced 
his steps across the yard. He walked slowly around 
the house and under the wide-spreading trees. 

He had spent the day in a vain effort to have a 
word with Margy. As she did not appear at break- 

[145] 


Cfte %itrcnfft6 

fast, Louise had asked Maggie about her, and had 
received the noncommittal reply that she had gone 
to Beech wood. Before the meal was finished, how- 
ever, Douglas caught a glimpse of her, out of the 
window of the dining room that overlooks the back 
yard. He had seen her dismount in front of the 
kitchen, and fall into the arms of Mammy Clo. A 
few moments later he had heard a shuffling of feet 
on the back stairs and a few muffled sobs. He sprang 
to the door and was up the stairs at a bound just as 
Mammy Clo turned and slapimed the door in his 
face. 

As he walked back and forth under the dense, 
overhanging trees, he cudgeled his brain to find a 
solution for Margy’s flight and precipitate return. 

He had seen Julia at breakfast. She was a little 
paler, perhaps, but otherwise appeared her calm, 
well-balanced, dignified self. Mayer and Louise 
had invited Julia and himself to accompany them 
on a trip to Yorktown. Julia had accepted with a 
rather forced enthusiasm, he thought. But there 
was no interesting spot, historical or otherwise, in 
Virginia or in the world, that could have dragged 
him away from Glen Haven. He must see Margy! 

The party had made an early start, and he had 
wandered around the place all day. He had par- 
taken of a solitary dinner, sei*ved by the inscrut- 
able Maggie. At first he made a few conciliatory 
overtures to her, in an impersonal manner, hoping 
thereby to find out something about Margy. Mag- 
gie’s short monosyllabic answers and the scornful 
curl of her thick lips roused aggressive anger in 

[146] 


©f tbt mtak 

him, and he lapsed into somber silence. All the 
forces of the place seemed arrayed against him. 

After dinner he was dozing with a cigar and a 
magazine on the half-shaded porch, when Robert 
Norwood galloped up the drive and disappeared 
around the house. Douglas clumsily hurried 
through the hallway, and peered through the old 
blinds at the back. He saw Robert draw rein in 
front of the kitchen, hand a white envelope to 
Mammy Clo, pause for a moment, wheel his horse 
suddenly, and gallop back. 

Mammy Clo walked straight across the yard and 
up to Margy's room, where she stayed for an hour. 
Douglas saw her as she came out, — and it was then 
that he appealed to her to take a message for him 
to Margy. 

Now and then he looked up at the great, square 
house, as he walked back and forth. The hot sun 
of the middle afternoon was tempered by fleecy 
white clouds that were scurrying across the sky. 
A mist hung over the waters; the long branches 
of the elms swayed in the breeze. 

Margy lay in her room on her high, tester bed, 
watching the trailing clouds leaping from crest to 
crest; she heard the fluttering of the birds, the 
rhythmic music of the swaying leaves, — conscious 
in every quivering nerve of a tragic finality, as 
the dull ache in her heart quickened into acute pain. 

The wild ride from Beechwood, — as she flew 
along the glimmering road; the hot sun beating 
down on her head; the frenzied old horse that 
seemed to catch something of the clutching terror 

[147] 


Cfte ^trengtS 

within her, — all seemed now like a black, uncanny 
dream. Every instinct within her, the innate deli- 
cacy and purity of her unfolding soul, recoiled be- 
fore the menace of Robert’s accusing words that 
were still ringing in her ears. 

She held in her hand his note of wild entreaty 
for forgiveness. She raised herself on the bed 
and placed it on the stand by her side. It was of 
little consequence; it did not lift the sharp pain that 
was dragging somewhere within her. 

Suspicion — doubt — had pierced her mind like a 
poisoned arrow; she could not free herself from it. 
She dared not try to analyze, — though the cry of 
her own heart, and the mental vision of Douglas' 
face, were clamoring their appeal. 

At the same time she felt that she must fight 
her way to some temporary lifting of the tortures 
she was enduring. They were smothering her. She 
lay quiet, feeling curiously inert. She must know 
the truth, — yet shrank from its possible revelation. 

Suddenly, without warning, a small white object 
whirled through the open windoiw, and rattled along 
the polished floor. She sat up, her heart beating 
fast; she threw back the light coverlet and ran 
across the room and picked it up. It was a smooth 
beach pebble with a folded note wrapped around it, 
and secured by a rubber snap. She gazed at the 
unfamiliar writing, — then — with white, terrified 
face, slowly unfolded the paper. 

“I’ve waited for you — alone — all day, Margy. 
I’ll wait for a million years if you make me! But 
won’t you come down to the beach and let me see 

[148] 


SDf tift WitnU 

you — I must talk to you! I’ll be expecting you, at 
the clump of pines. Come soon, dear. Douglas.''" 

The note fluttered from her fingers. She looked 
helplessly around. What could she do? But un- 
consciously the pain in her heart lightened ; in spite 
of herself, a sort of rebounding joy rose within 
her. 

She threw off the wrapper Mammy Clo had put 
about her, and shook out a fresh white dress from 
the tall wardrobe; bathed her face, brushed her 
hair, but with little regard for what she was doing. 

As she crossed the lawn toward the beach, the 
white dress swept the tall grass from her feet. 
There was no color in her face or lips. Margy’s 
soul was trembling in every unlighted recess, fear- 
ing the unfolding intelligence of unawakened pas- 
sion, — of the woman that was stirring so strangely 
within her. 

‘T thought you would never come!” 

She stopped short, a few feet away from him. 
Douglas quickly crossed the intervening space and 
took both her hands in his. They were cold as 
ice. 

‘T came as quickly as I could,” she answered 
simply, dropping her eyes and withdrawing het 
hands. With a little shiver, she let them fall at 
her side. 

He saw that she was trembling, and was puzzled. 
The look on her face was half hunted— half afraid. 
She seemed to shrink from him. 

“Come, Margy,— you are tired,— you are ill. The 

[149] 


Cfie ^trengtft 

sand is warm and dry, — let’s sit down. Now, tell 
me, — what has happened to you, dear?” 

Margy sat down and curled herself up on the 
sand ; Douglas stretched his heavy form awkwardly 
beside her. He noted the tragedy in her uplifted 
eyes. She made no answer, for she did not know 
what to say. He determined first to put her at ease, 
— to dispel whatever it was that had frightened 
her. 

He began to talk in a pleasantly impersonal way ; 
then he told her of his visit to Mammy Clo and its 
result. He elaborated upon the length of the day, 
and of his helplessness in trying to make his will 
felt in an atmosphere so fully charged with the will 
of others. 

‘'Bht we Yankees are stubborn folk, Margy. 
When we want a thing, we want it, — and we gen- 
erally get it!” 

Margy made no reply; he watched her intently. 
Suddenly he said: 

‘"You look so white to-day, Margy. The only 
color seems to be in your hair and eyes. But — I 
like that dress. What is it — gingham?” 

‘'No, — it’s muslin,” said Margy, who had been 
furtively watching him. 

“Starched ?” 

“Oh, yes, — it’s starched.” A little ghost of a 
smile lighted for a moment the pallor of her face. 
She leaned over and, picking up some sand, began 
running it through her fingers. The smile on her 
face widened, and he saw the suggestion of a twin- 
kle in the corner of her eye. He waited. 

[ISO] 


2Df tfje Wltak 

*‘When I was little,” she went on at last, “Mam- 
my could always make me do what she wanted me 
to by threatening not to starch my skirts. I wanted 
them to stand out, — like a ballet dancer’s.” 

She looked at him through her eyelashes, — her 
head held down. 

“I like that dress,” he quickly reiterated; “it 
looks so fresh, and doesn’t choke you up around the 
neck, — leaves room for those little curls behind.” 

“Miss Farwell has such beautiful clothes ” 

“She never had anything as pretty as this dress. 
Her things as so — so — mushy and rattley.” 

Margy’s eyes came up to his at last, and the color 
was slowly returning to her face. Although in no 
wise cognizant of the art of the dressmaker’s craft, 
his description of the gorgeous, clinging gowns that 
Miss Farwell wore stirred a sense of quick humor 
in Margy, — for which she as quickly reproached 
herself. It savored of the spirit of ridicule, — and 
Margy was a lady to the core. 

“I love soft, fine things,” she said. “Mammy 
has saved a trunk full of beautiful things for me, — 
silks, and laces, and stockings. The dresses all fit 
me, — but one can’t wear dresses that are a hundred 
years old nowadays.” 

“You had one on that first day.” Douglas 
straightened himself beside her, clasped arms 
around his knees. “I shall always remember you — 
as you looked that day. Do you know, Margy, I 
have been dreaming to-day. I’ve walked under 
those great trees, and I’ve seen visions! I have 

[151] 


C6e ^ttengtfi 

taken a quiet survey of the last three hundred 
years.” 

He paused. Margy’s eyes, under their brilliant 
lashes, rested dreamily on the waters, but Douglas 
saw that she was listening. 

‘‘I saw knightly cavaliers paying court to stately 
ladies, with powdered hair and wide-spreading 
skirts, — there on the porches and under the trees. 
A long procession of phantoms and shadows passed 
in review before me. I heard echoing through the 
great halls, the patter of children’s feet and the tot- 
tering steps of old age ; I heard the cry of the new- 
born babe and the feeble call of the sick and dying ; 
I saw dainty, blushing brides, and shrouded palls 
for the dead. And — last, I saw you, Margy, — the 
center and soul of it all, — standing alone, — looking 
out at life, trembling, fearful, — with those wonder- 
ful eyes, — ^half full of tears and half of laughter.” 

He paused, and turned to find Margy staring at 
him. The color had left her face. 

“How strange!” she whispered. “Robert said 
— you were seeing — all those things!” 

“What!” 

The short, quick word seemed to cut into her 
own. He regretted the sharp interruption as soon 
as it was uttered, for he saw the old look of fear 
creeping into her face again. He reached out and 
took the hand that was lying idly in her lap into 
both of his own and held it tightly clasped. 

“Now — tell me, Margy, just what Robert said.” 

“He said — a great many things,” she fenced. 

“I see ” The light was coming to Douglas 

[152] 


SDf tfie ®aeafe 

at last. He understood what had been puzzling 
him before. Slowly, but firmly, he drew the story 
from her. 

“Robert is — resourceful,” he remarked, when she 
had finished. “Did you believe him, — Margy?” 

Margy turned her head away. 

“I don’t understand,” she began brokenly. “It 
seems very strange — that you should care for me !” 

Something in the bright, waving hair, the curve 
of her cheek, the turn of her lips, her light, round 
form, with its confiding movements, suggested to 
him an elusive spirit, — that he must catch and hold 
securely now, — lest he lose it forever. As he was 
hesitating how to express himself, she said : 

“There are so many barriers between us!” 

“No barrier is insurmountable by love,” was his 
ready answer; “not of age — of character — of habit 
— of mental equipment, — or of that intangible thing 
— Robert calls — tradition 1” 

He knew instinctively the one word that struck 
the keynote of all opposing forces. 

“You, Margy, are the first Southern girl I have 
ever met.” 

He saw her start. 

“Robert said that, too — did he?” he laughed. “I 
have not fallen in love, however, with a type, 
Margy, — but with you! You — dear — you! Your 
own dear self, — and you are the embodiment of that 
which the men and women of the old South have 
transmitted to their gentle descendants! Your 
voice — your carriage — your hand — your foot — 
Margy — are all a heritage of which you may well 

[153] 


Cl)e %>tttnstb 

be proud! Your sweet, simple ideas of life, — your 
pride — ^your loyalty, — ^your womanliness, the innate 
delicacy of body and mind ” 

'‘Do you know — what I think?’' she interrupted, 
laughing softly under her breath, — while wave after 
wave of color mounted from neck to forehead, for 
the weight was lifting from Margy’s heart, and 
the quick rebound of her youth went out to meet 
him. 

"I think you have — imagination ! You’ve attrib- 
uted to me all those grand, beautiful things which 
I never heard of before in all my life, — and scarce 
know what you mean. They sound like something 
dreadfully exclusive and expensive! While you 
were speaking, I felt like a wonderful sort of be- 
ing, — like one of those dull old glass vases, — that 
only the sun can light up in splendor! But they 
are so fragile that the least little jar will shiver 
them into a thousand pieces! While — in reality — ' 
I am — nothing ” 

"Margy!” He bounded to his feet and drew her 
gently up beside him. She saw the smouldering 
fires in his eyes, — their infinite tenderness. "Did 
you think for one moment, when I left you this 
morning, that I would ever give you up? Don’t 
you know that you cannot get away from my love, 
— that all the hopes, ambitions, yearnings of my 
mature manhood are slumbering in this little slip of 
a body of yours — and that I will never let you go? 
For — Margy — I love you — I love you! I love you 
the more because of your helplessness, dear! With 
all the might of my heart and soul, — for life, for 

[ 154 ] 


SDf tbt Witak 

death, for all eternity! I love you, — you, Margy, 
what you are! 

“Place your life in my hands, — you will never 
regret it! My love will shut you in so completely 
that you will want nothing beyond it 1 I will bring 
it to you fresh and fragrant every day 1’^ 

Their eyes met; his eloquently pleading; hers 
kind — yet 

“I want to stand between you and the world, — 
between you and every hurt — every sorrow that can 
touch you!” he went on. “I will shield you with 
the last drop of my life’s blood ! I want you to be 
dependent upon me! I will love you so — you will 
have no power to exist — outside of my protection! 
This was the idea in the mind of God when he cre- 
ated man and woman on the earth !” 

He was lifted outside of himself, and the power 
of his pleading left her helpless. Her lips parted; 
he heard her uneven breathing. 

“I do — love you,” she whispered. 

“Then 

She came slowly toward him ; her soft white arms 
crept round his neck. 

“If we love each other — nothing else matters!” 

And she raised her lips to his. 

In the clump of pines behind them a mocking 
bird burst forth in a long and delicious thrill. 


C6e ^tttnetb 


CHAPTER X 

A DROP OF BLOOD 

white fleecy clouds that had been frolicking 
■"* over the heavens during the afternoon had 
gradually gathered themselves together into great 
pyramids in the West. The sun went down behind 
them in a blinding crimson glory, which changed 
quickly to sombre hue as the clouds rolled together 
and stood out black and threatening, and heat light- 
ning played along the darker edges in the waning 
light 

Tiny whitecaps were dancing over the waters and 
the breeze from the land grew hot and stifling. The 
atmosphere that brooded over Glen Haven held a 
peculiar maze that gave a steel-gray, weird cast to 
the approaching twilight; the fading afterglow re- 
flected itself in the top of the trees, on the dark- 
ened columns of the porch and the gleaming win- 
dow-panes. 

As the old family dayton, drawn by the faithful 
Prince Albert, made its cautious way through the 
gate and into the shadow of a tall, ragged pine 
used as a hitching post, that stood half way between 
the barn and the house, Louise Lloyd, sitting on the 

[156] 


HDt tbt mtnk 

front seat beside Napoleon, who had proudly acted 
the part of driver and guide during the day, saw 
Margy and Douglas slowly loitering along the out- 
skirts of the lawn. She waved her handkerchief 
gaily to them, and, making a trumpet of her hands, 
called out: 

'‘Oh — Douglas — ^you don’t know what you’ve 
missed I” 

They quickened their step and reached the side of 
the vehicle, just as Alfred Mayer was helping Julia 
over the clumsy wheels, and as Robert Norwood, 
who was on his horse behind them, flung his lithe 
body from the saddle and threw the rein around 
the trunk of the tree. 

"You should have gone, Douglas! You don’t 
know what you missed!” Louise repeated. 

"How absurd to condole with Douglas — for hav- 
ing missed anything to-day!” Julia challenged 
lightly, shaking out her skirts and lifting her heavy 
hair from her forehead with both hands. "Look 
at their faces — no need to ask their secret !” 

Douglas shot an angry glance at her, but her 
quick smile met him unflinchingly. Margy flushed 
scarlet, and her eyes fell. Robert, ignoring the 
presence of everyone, came up to her. 

"Is this true, Margy?” he asked evenly. 

Margy raised her bright eyes to his and reached 
out her hand toward Douglas. Douglas took it and 
held it tightly clasped. With his other hand he 
drew her toward him, and faced Robert in a friendly 
but defiant challenge. There was no touch of vin- 
dictiveness, however, in his triumph. 

[157] 


Cfie %>tttnetb 

‘We have no secret,’’ he answered without a qui- 
ver of an eyelash. “Julia has anticipated us — a few 
hours, that’s all ! We had intended to announce our 
engagement to-night.” 

As he was speaking, Robert’s black eyes glow- 
ered at him from out a white face. He looked 
steadily from one to the other. Then slowly, he 
reached out his hand. Douglas grasped it warmly. 

“You will — be good — to her, sir?” Robert fal- 
tered, brokenly. 

“As God is my witness !” was the firm answer. 

During this little scene Alfred Mayer tugged at 
Louise’s sleeve. 

“Come !” he whispered dramatically. “Let’s 
move on — get out of shot range!” 

Louise followed a short distance, her face in a 
stupor of puzzled amazement. Mayer thoughtfully 
regarded his finger nails. 

“What do you make of it?” he asked. 

She stopped suddenly and looked back over her 
shoulder. 

‘What on earth — are they talking about ? Look 
at Douglas — look at Julia — ^why — look at Margy! 
Of all things! I thought ” 

She wheeled and walked briskly back to the 
group. 

“What does it all mean?” she asked Robert. 

Robert stated the blunt fact without comment. 

“Douglas and Margy are to be married.” 

“W-what!” It was only a gasp. “And, you 
knewT she accused Mayer. 

“Not a breath,” he answered, with cynical solem- 

[158] 


2I>( tije CiSteaK 

nity. ‘‘It merely happens that I have two eyes in 
my head ! And I do a little thinking — sometimes — 
under pressure!” 

“It seems that I haven’t eyes or ears or — 
thoughts 1” sighed Louise. “But — ^but — how happy 
Douglas looks! I — I guess it will be all right — 
don’t you?” 

The question did not appear directed toward any- 
one in particular, but Robert, who was standing 
nearest her, after a pause, said : 

“God grant it!” 

Under the shelter of the chatter of the others, 
and Margy’s and Douglas’ confusion, Julia gave 
Margy a queer, appraising stare from the top of her 
waving hair that went rippling back from her rosy 
face and lay in bright, fluffy tendrils about her fore- 
head, to the slender neck — the girlish figure, slim 
and gentle, but with a vitality not discernible at a 
glance — the white dress made of finest muslin and 
gathered simply at the waist — down to the tiny shoe 
peeping out under ruffles. Slowly she searched the 
girl’s face with a quizzical scrutiny; she watched 
the shy play of her eyes, as, under the long, sweep- 
ing lashes they caressed, coquetted, allured, in her 
new-found happiness, with childish innocence. Ju- 
lia’s insistent eyes took note also of the warm pro- 
tective tenderness that glowed on Douglas’ face. 

At length she impulsively placed her arm about 
Margy’s shoulder. 

“There is no one, my dear,” she began, speaking 
in rich, full tones, “that wishes for you greater hap- 
piness than I! I meant no offence,” she laughed 

[159] 


Cfte S»trengtft 

under her breath. "‘Both your faces were a study ! 
And I only wanted you to let us rejoice with youT' 

“You are^ — very kind/’ Margy whispered. 

“I have formed some plans of my own for to- 
night,” Julia went on, grasping the situation firmly 
in her capable hands. “We must have a little cele- 
bration for you — and Douglas I We will all go and 
dress — ” 

“Oh — Margy!” exclaimed Louise, delightedly, 
“put on that quaint little dress you wore the first 
day we came! Make yourself look like a Colonial 
bride !” 

Margy’s eyes sparkled. As the group dispersed 
on the lawn she walked slowly along the little path 
toward the rear. 

Once around the corner of the house, Margy 
flew across the yard and bounded into the kitchen 
door. She threw her arms about Mammy Clo’s 
astonished neck and danced the amazed old woman 
around the room. 

“Fo’ de Lawd— ” 

“Oh — Mammy, Mammy — I’m so happy — Fm so 
happy! Hurry — hurry, Mammy — come and help 
me dress! Quick, Mammy! Make me prettier 
than I ever was in my life! Oh! I’m so happy — so 
happy! It’s all right — Robert understands — Miss 
Farwell understands — oh, everything’s all right! 
And I am so happy !” 

“Understands what, Margy?” Aunt Nancy’s low 
voice interrupted in bewildered surprise. Margy 
saw her for the first time, and between hugs and 
[i6o] 


tj)c (DQeafe 

kisses and laughter she poured forth the story in 
disconnected, incoherent sentences. 

Maggie, standing behind them, lost for a moment 
her attitude of petrified calm, and, with wide 
stretched eyes and gleaming teeth, listened breath- 
lessly with the others. 

The very power of Margy^s bounding happiness 
swept away all opposing forces. It was impossible 
for Aunt Nancy and Mammy Clo to resist the tu- 
mult of joy that possessed her! 

There was something contagious in the temper of 
her delight. In this first supreme crisis of her 
young life she ruled the spirit of the place, and dic- 
tated to them her wishes with the same confident, 
regal air of a tyrant that had marked the rule of 
her reign from the time her baby fingers locked 
their hearts in one ! 

‘^And — there’s going to be a party — and a sur- 
prise 1” She caught her breath in a little delighted 
gasp. ^'Miss Farwell said so! And they want me 
to wear the pink brocade — and the high comb — and 
the silk stockings! Oh — hurry — hurry. Mammy 
— come and help me dress ! Get my things, quick. 
Aunt Nancy! Please — make me — beautiful!” 

She clasped her hands on her breast, and the joy 
that filled her heart was expressed in every curve 
and line of her supple figure and happy face! 

She skipped across the yard and up the stairs to 
her room. Mammy Clo and Aunt Nancy and Mag- 
gie followed close behind her. 

Soon, bed and chairs and divans were piled with 
filmy treasures of silk and laces. Mammy Clo, 


Cfie %tttneth 

bending over a cedar chest, passed garment after 
garment to Maggie's 'waiting hands. 

‘‘Honey!" a muffled voice sounded from the 
depths of the open chest, “how yo' gwine t’ eat all 
dem col' vic'uals w'at Yankees hab?" 

“Oh — ain't it just grand!" ejaculated Maggie. 
“Miss Margy will live in a city and eat whatever she 
wants to — Mr. Lloyd is awful rich!" 

“Why!" exclaimed Margy, “I hadn't thought of 
that! But it will be nice, won't it? To have beau- 
tiful things — and beautiful clothes, all new — and 
not have to skimp and worry !" 

Aunt Nancy, standing on a chair, handed a san- 
dalwood box to her from off the top shelf of the 
wardrobe. 

‘‘O— oh!'’ 

Margy caught her breath in astonishment and de- 
light. This box had always held riiystery ; she had 
never been allowed to touch it. 

“It is for me — now ?" 

“Yes — for you, Margy!” 

Margy sank down on the floor and drew her foot 
up under her. She placed the box on her knees. 
Aunt Nancy and Mammy Clo and Maggie watched 
her in silence. 

She turned the key and raised the lid. First, em- 
bedded in laces, with face upturned, lay a miniature 
portrait of her mother, surrounded by a wrought- 
gold frame, set with diamonds. Margy lifted it and 
held it in her hand ; she looked long into the gray 
eyes, so like her own — that seemed to reflect a touch 
of her own happiness as they looked up at her from 

[162] 


SS)t tbe mtak 

off the cold ivory. Her mother! For an instant 
Margy's lips quivered, and she pressed the glittering 
miniature to her cheek in a little passionate gesture. 
She understood all at once what the box contained. 
It was her inheritance — her wedding gift — from 
her mother ! 

With eyes and heart full, she handed the picture 
to Aunt Nancy. Then she lifted the laces and the 
folds fell loose in her hands ; they covered her in a 
gleaming shower. Mammy Clo gathered the deli- 
cate web carefully in her arms. It was the old point 
wedding veil. Below were yards and yards of rare 
old laces, and down at the bottom lay a string of 
pearls and her mother’s jewels. 

She replaced the treasures carefully, leaving out 
the miniature and the pearls. 

They dressed her with infinite care and patience. 
The completed picture grew without effort under 
their hands in every carefully wrought detail. 
Margy drew a long breath, and with a hand-mirror, 
turning this way and that, surveyed the effect with 
eager questioning. She longed to be beautiful to- 
night — not for the gratification of any personal van- 
ity, but to please Douglas and the others. Aunt 
Nancy and Mammy Clo fluttered around her ex- 
citedly. 

“Go show yourself to Miss Farwell, Margy, be- 
fore you go down,” suggested Maggie. 

“It might disturb her,” replied Margy ; “she may 
be busy,” and she turned to the mirror again, with 
little smiles of excitement and delight — so keen it 
was almost pain. 

[163] 


Cl)e §)trcn0ti) 

Miss Farwell was busy. She sat before an open 
escritoire in her bedroom. The sultry air swept 
back the curtains, the rain beat upon the panes of 
glass above her; the heavy climbing vines and long 
branches of the trees rocked restlessly against the 
roof, making mournful complaint; a misty spray 
came through the window ; the katydids rasped dole- 
ful vespers in the bushes without. 

Now and then she shivered slightly in the hot air. 
A sob rose in her throat, and through a mist of sud- 
den tears she gazed at a paper that was spread out 
before her. It was the deed to Glen Haven which 
Robert had brought to her. 

Her calm, quiet manner gave little hint of the 
tumult that was raging in her breast. Now and 
then a smile played about her stiff lips and a cold 
light flashed in her eyes. Julia Farwell was being 
tortured by passions of which she was ashamed — 
and yet before whose power she stood helpless in a 
kind of terror. 

She had formed quick plans for the future. 
Wherever Douglas and Margy went, she would fol- 
low them. She would shield Douglas from paying 
the full price of his folly and blindness. With 
clenched hands she fought back her own pain, and 
determined to consecrate her life and all the powers 
that she possessed to a constant, continued effort to 
save her love — in spite of himself. 

As for Margy — bah — she shrugged her shoul- 
ders. What was she — after all? A silly little 
weakling, whom mere chance had thrown in Doug- 
las’ path and captured the man’s weakness. Would 
[164] 


Df tbt Witnk 

it not be just that she should suffer — that she should' 
feel the pangs of outraged love — measure for meas- 
ure — as she had dealt it out to her ? 

With her eyes still fastened on the paper, she 
picked up a gold-mounted knife from among the 
trinkets on her desk and turned it idly in her hand. 
Suddenly, as if overpowered by some wounded 
thing that was struggling within her, she pushed the 
paper from her and clenched her hands hard. 

A drop of blood flowed from a tiny cut on her 
forefinger and fell upon the white paper, staining it 
a deep crimson. 

*'Why — how provoking!” she muttered, drop- 
ping the knife. 

Then, her eyes fell on the blot on the paper. She 
regarded it indifferently at first — but presently her 
eyes narrowed and clung to it as if fascinated by a 
subtle suggestion. She leaned over for a moment, 
touched the paper lightly with her long, pointed 
nails — her lips parted — deep, heavy breathing 
alone breaking the stillness of the room. She was 
silent in body and soul and lips. Every vestige of 
color left her face; she seemed powerless to move. 

For a full minute she stood thus; then she stead- 
ied herself with one hand on the corner of the table. 
With a curious light in her deep black eyes, she 
folded the paper, making no effort to remove the 
stain. Carefully adjusting it in a long legal en- 
velope, she deftly stuck it among the folds of silk 
at her waist. 

With her hand on the door-knob, she listened a 
moment as the sound of happy voices and laughter 

[1653 


Cfie %)tttnQtb 

reached her from below, mingled with low, rum- 
bling peals of thunder from the storm that was rag- 
ing in the distance. At last, with lips firmly pressed 
and head held high, she threw open the door. 

3|e ^ * * * * * 

They were all assembled in the great hall as 
Margy came slowly down the long winding stair- 
case. The glow from the hanging lamps threw 
their full light upon her. Her slender neck, with 
the string of pearls resting against the velvet flesh, 
held her head erect, like the stem of a gorgeous 
flower. Her breast rose and fell excitedly; with 
one hand she lifted the folds of her full skirt — the 
other lay upon the miniature, in its tiny frame of 
diamonds, glittering on her breast. Her face, shin- 
ing and radiant with happiness; her slender figure, 
in the old pink brocade, with its high waist and low 
neck and bare arms; her powdered hair piled high 
with great waving puffs, held in place with a tor- 
toise shell comb that encircled the entire back, made 
an entrancing picture that called forth exclamations 
of wonder and delight ! 

A thrilling joy in her very loveliness held Doug- 
las dumb! With clasped arms, Robert watched her; 
all feelings of anger and resentment and bitterness 
lost themselves before the beauty of her radiant 
face. 

They fell back as she approached, forming a semi- 
circle. Margy gave a happy little laugh and slowly 
turned herself around. 

“How do you like me?’' she asked. 

[i66] 


ffl)f tfie mtak 

“You are the loveliest — the most beautiful pic- 
ture I ever saw,” Louise exclaimed, touching the 
laces on her shoulder and running her eyes the 
length of her figure. “Look, Robert,” she went on, 
impulsively turning toward him, “Isn’t she a 
dream ?” 

Margy quickly faced him. “Do you like me — 
like this, Robert?” 

“I’ve seen you like this before, Margy.” 

Margy’s eyes widened. “No, you haven’t — 
when?” 

“In my dreams,” he replied, answering her smile, 
but with a dry catch in his throat. 

Margy straightened her skirts, and, going up in 
front of Douglas, dropped him an old-fashioned 
courtesy. 

“And you — D-Douglas?” 

Douglas lifted her hand gallantly, and, kneeling 
on the floor, raised it to his lips. 

“My beautiful — Princess,” he murmured. 

At Margy’s first approach Julia had stepped be- 
hind the others and watched the little scene with 
interest. As Douglas straightened himself she came 
forward and laid her hand on Margy’s arm. 

Margy’s eyes looked into hers, and, as they met, 
Julia paled a trifle and the hand with which she was 
fumbling among the folds at her waist trembled. It 
was only for a moment; she drew forth the long, 
white envelope. 

“I said I had a little surprise for you, Margy — ^ 
are you not curious to know what it is ?” she asked. 

“You have been very kind,” Margy replied, em- 


C6e 

barrassed to know just what to say. Julia saw the 
confused sweetness in her eyes. 

“This is a night of rejoicing, Margy.” She 
paused a moment, and Douglas looked at her ques- 
tioningly. “There must be nothing to mar your 
perfect happiness ! And so — here among those who 
love you — in your ancestral hall — on the night of 
your betrothal, I want to present — Glen Haven — to 
you as my wedding gift! Take it, my dear — no 
one else has a right to it! It belongs to you — and 
yours !” 

Margy’s face went white. She looked around 
helplessly from one to the other. The paper, held 
in Miss Farwell’s extended hand, danced before her 
eyes ; she made no move to take it. 

“I — don’t — understand,” she faltered, at last. 

“It is very simple,” smiled Julia, with a warmth 
of friendly feeling in her voice. “It is only your 
right — it is due you. And I am honored to be able 
to make the gift. May you always be as happy — 
as you are to-night !” 

The slow color flowed back into Margy’s face. 
The full import of the gift and its significance came 
home to her. Douglas put his arm about her waist. 

“Take it, Margy,” he said in a firm, clear voice. 

Margy looked from one to the other. Then her 
eyes danced as she reached forth her hand. Sud- 
denly she sprang to Julia’s side and threw her arms 
around her neck and kissed her — her great gray 
eyes filling with tears. 

“You are — so — so — good,” she breathed with a 
laugh and a sob. 


2)f tbt SjQeak 

Julia,” said Douglas, deeply impressed, ‘‘how — ■ 
how splendid of you! It was a superb— a noble, 
generous act I” 

“It was merely — a fancy of mine,” she answered 
carelessly, turning away, as the others pressed 
closely about them. In the confusion that followed 
Margy slipped out. 

Douglas searched the room for her, and finally 
opened the door leading on to the porch. A fierce 
gust of hot wind, mingled with flying mist, struck 
him in the face as he closed the door behind him. 
He paused a moment to accustom his eyes to the 
uncanny light, as the half-veiled moon, shining be- 
tween the dark ridges of cloud, pierced through the 
heavy air; the falling rain and rushing wind about 
him added turmoil to the roar of the distant storm. 

In a far corner, sheltered by a dense network of 
climbing honeysuckle and roses, the outline of 
Margy’s figure gradually took shape. Directly 
above her head a long vine of the old honeysuckle 
hung suspended, and its heavy waving coils ap- 
peared to Douglas for a moment like the spirals of 
a huge deadly snake. 

He sprang to her side and tore the menacing vine 
from its fastening! 

“What ! Crying — Margy ,” as he took her in 

his arms and crushed her to him. 

“It is only — because — I am — so happy!” she 
sobbed. 





BOOK 11. 


AFTER THREE YEARS. 


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CHAPTER I 


THE NEW HOME 

<^]Vf ISS MA’GY— is yo’ Wke?’^ 

Margy threw a hand back over her head 
upon the pillow; the loose folds of her French em- 
broidered nightdress fell away, leaving her arm 
bare almost to the shoulder. She turned her head, 
with its mass of gold-brown hair piled high upon it, 
sighed, and blinked sleepily toward the doorway, 
through which the voice had issued. 

“Not exactly — > — ” 

“Sh — go ba’k t' sleep, honey! Hit’s all right! 
Baby’s had ’er bath en is asleep. Time nuff fo’ yo’, 
— ’tain’t no hurry ! Po’ chile — so ti’ed ! Go ba’k t’ 
sleep!” 

And she closed the door softly. 

Margy was indeed loath to rouse herself ; her body 
and mind longed to slip back into the rest of fitful 
dreams — for a lonely evening had passed into a rest- 
less night. 

The fact that she had been troubled when she 
went to bed seemed of less importance now than the 
fact that she must get up and forge her way through 
the confusion of another day. 

[173] 


Cfie ^txtnetb 

She lay still and motionless in the soft dusk of 
the room. The charm of its intimate beauty, the 
blending of light and shade, could not take away the 
oppression which the memory of last night forced 
upon her on this dull gray, wintry morning. She 
gave herself up to a sombre brooding, of which 
Douglas was the direct subject, and a long chain of 
domestic upheavals the indirect cause. 

Douglas had been restless lately, — she wondered 
why ! She thought with a pang of how he had looked 
last night when he left her, as his angry face rose 
before her ; the parting had been awkward, stormy. 

The incident that had caused the trouble, was, 
after all, very absurd and trifling. There was a 
ball at the Chamberlin; she had promised him to 
go. By the time he had come home to dinner, how- 
ever, she was tired. It had been a hard day, for 
there was no maid in the house, and the babies had 
been fretful — Mammy Clo was too old to do much. 
The work seemed endless. At the last moment 
she had refused to go. 

Douglas had gone without her — with Julia; but 
he had not understood and was angry. Margy had 
been transplanted into new soil, and the complex 
life somehow confused and hurt her. The constant 
efifort of trying to please him was becoming dull 
and burdensome. Before the bar of her wifely con- 
science, however, she stood condemned of selfishness. 
She blamed herself for these things, but seemed 
powerless to help them. 

The interest of the whole world for her was cen- 
tered within the four walls of her home; in Doug- 

[174] 


tfie jsaeafe 

las’ growing lack of tenderness and consideration 
for her, the fear was forced upon her that even 
there she had failed utterly ! 

Margy’s thoughts drew slowly away into a vague 
cloud at the horizon of her mind. Some silent thing 
seemed to be creeping in between them. Her heart 
could not convince her that the spectre did not exist. 
This unformed idea now grew more and more in- 
sistent I 

She remembered, with vivid force, the first 
shadow that had come. It was at a critical moment, 
that Margy was then too young and inexperienced to 
understand; when life, with its inexorable laws, 
caused a temporary parting of the ways between 
husband and wife; when a woman must learn a 
relentless truth, though it hurt her terribly: that 
there is a long way she must tread alone, when not 
even her husband’s love can quite reach her ! These 
months had passed; they had placed her first-born 
in her arms, and the warmth of his little living 
body soothed and comforted her. The shadows 
lifted, but the scars remained ! For trifling incidents 
had been exaggerated, and each had marked an 
epoch. Invisible barriers had snapped, quick words 
had been spoken and fatal milestones passed. Each 
month lately had brought fresh perplexities, and the 
clouds seemed to be gathering in force. 

With her hand, Margy idly traced the pattern 
of the blue satin coverlet of her bed and, by a process 
of circumvention, let her mind drift leisurely over 
the last three years. 

After all, how happy, how gloriously happy, they 

[175] 


Cde ^ttengtd 

had been! She remembered the wild intoxication 
of the first few months, the home-coming, when she 
had entered this cosy nest, that Douglas, with Julia’s 
invaluable help, had prepared. Julia had stood on 
the threshold to welcome them. Julia! Ah, what 
a friend she had been, so capable, so wise, so good ! 
Everything in the room, in the house in fact, bore 
silent witness to her kindness and her exceeding 
good taste! 

The days and weeks and months had drifted on; 
the rainy Springs, the calm, sweet Summers, the 
stormy Autumns of a tidewater year succeeded one 
another, and the dawn broke and the night fell over 
the new home on the new street in the new section 
of the little city. Death had entered, for Aunt 
Nancy’s gentle life had flickered out a few months 
after the marriage; births had been registered and 
Margy’s woman soul satisfied. 

She looked now about her wistfully, trying, as 
she had tried a thousand times before, to fit herself 
into it all! 

Everything was so new! The heavy twin brass 
beds, the graceful mahogany, with high spindle 
legs and long curved oval mirrors, the satin dam- 
ask couch, with trailing pink rose buds rioting over 
its silvery surface ; at the windows dainty lace cur- 
tains and heavier silken hangings; the soft rugs, 
with such wonderful sheen and such horrible names ! 
A beautiful room — indeed fit for a Princess ! 

The little brass clock, Douglas’ first present to her, 
whose very tick this morning seemed to be vibrant 
with shut-in defiance, took her thoughts back to 

[176] 


tbt mcak 

Glen Haven. There had been lack of much at Glen 
Haven, — but, above all, lack of any discord. Days 
when the rooms were not dusted and things went 
wrong were matters for regret, — but not for vital 
discomfort. 

With a certain strength of thought that was 
growing within her, Margy smiled in grim humor 
at a shrewd comparison that came to her mind. She 
herself was as much out of harmony with her sur- 
roundings, — as they were out of order. Her slip- 
pers lay upon the hearth rug where she had tossed 
them; among her silver a box of hairpins had been 
upset upon the dresser, and a diminutive red iron 
cannon from little Preston’s fortress lay upturned 
upon them. On the floor beneath were the remain- 
ing cannon, with a wrecked bulwark, and some 
sections of bent tracking, — while, a few feet away, 
a linen book with a huge green elephant torn in 
two partly covered some letter blocks. 

A half-open drawer of a chiffonier revealed a 
mass of lingerie, flne laces, and soft ribbons. Over 
the back of a chair lay the ivory satin dress she 
had intended to wear the night before. 

It was one of many beautiful new gowns that, 
with Julia’s aid, she had ordered. Margy looked 
resentfully at its embroidered panels and gold edged 
ruffles. Her soul was in revolt against the vani- 
ties with which she was surrounded. She marveled 
that the selection of clothes could ever have de- 
lighted her, — as they certainly had. She deter- 
mined that when she got up she would put the dress 
away and let it stay put away ! 

[177] 


Cfte ^tren0t|) 

THese moments of unrest were something new 
to Margy! This morning she seemed to be facing 
a hidden veil, — on which her thoughts cast strange, 
weird shadows. It was a monstrous thing to her 
that she and Douglas could ever drift apart! 

Margy shrank within herself; she would not let 
herself meet the thought; she was afraid to ac- 
knowledge to herself that she was sad, — and the 
reason for it! 

Suddenly she raised herself and leaped to the 
floor. She threw a neglige from the railing of her 
bed around her, and thrust her feet into the slippers 
on the rug. With one hand she held together the 
fluttering lace on her bosom, and with the other 
raised the window shade and stood looking into the 
street. 

The pavements were covered with sleet; flicker- 
ing sunlight seemed to be trying to break through 
the heavy sky and warm a frozen earth. From 
this window Margy had a glimpse of sky and sea 
and water. There was one little space between the 
prim rows of maples where she could see the line 
of the western horizon. On many a morning she 
had rested her soul and feasted her eyes on this 
little sketch. 

As she stood thus, looking out, she thought of 
the glorious beauty of Glen Haven in its winter 
garb; the strange gleams over the cold waters, the 
crackling frosts, the chill stripped trees, the de- 
serted nests, the lonely graves ! 

Margy shivered and drew back into the room. 
The cold cinders in the grate seemed to mock her; 

[178] 


ffl)f tbt mtak 

a bunch of faded roses in a vase had dropped their 
darkened petals and withered leaves along the shin- 
ing surface of the carved mantel and among the 
scattered ashes on the white tile. She dropped her 
hands dejectedly. 

"‘Mammy!” she called. 

Mammy Clo’s white-capped head protruded it- 
self through the doorway. 

“Yo’ bath’s ready, — honey.” 

“Yes — all — all right. Mammy, — just look at this 
room !” 

Mammy Clo stepped inside and bent her stifif old 
back picking up the linen elephant and the blocks. 

“I know, honey — I jest ain’ had time — — ” 

“Oh, I know that! I didn’t mean to reproach 
you! You do all you can and more, too. But — I 
must hurry and get things straightened up. And 
to think, — I’ve had six housemaids in the last two 
weeks and none half of the time!” 

The old woman moved slowly around the room. 

“Pears lak dese Graydon niggers is mor’ triflin’ 
dan up country! But — don’ worry, — we’ll git an- 
other!” 

“What time did Mr. Douglas get up Mammy?” 

“ ’Bout six, — I reckon.” 

“Did he have his breakfast?” 

“He fixed hisse’f a egg en sum coffee. Mattie 
ain’ bin long cum.” 

“Oh, dear!” 

Mammy straightened herself, and her forehead 
broke into a withered mass of wrinkles. 

“Don’ yo’ worry ’bout dat, chile! Marse Doug- 

,[179] 


Clje ^trengti) 

las kin eat breakfast lak a gemmen, — ef he wants 
tu, — en not lak a field han’ ! He wants coF victuals 
enyhow! Nobody has breakfast ’fore eight, en 
mor’ nine en ten.” 

*‘He thinks he must work so hard,” sighed 
Margy. At the door of her bathroom she paused. 

"‘Where’s Preston?” 

“He’s down wid de cook.” 

In the exquisite shock of the cold water Margy’s 
fatigue vanished; every sluggish muscle thrilled 
with delicious reaction. She emerged with face 
aglow, her shining hair pushed high from her fore- 
head. When she came back into the room, the 
hearth was swept, and a cheerful wood fire shot 
leaping flames up the chimney. She glanced at the 
pink figure reflected in the long mirror on her 
bathroom door, and noticed that it blended with the 
rose-leaf background of the room. 

Margy threw herself on the couch, nestling down 
luxuriously among the soft cushions; the feel of 
the satin against her cheek, the coolness and soft- 
ness of the silk all along and around her glowing 
body were deliciously soothing. 

But she had scarcely settled herself when Mam- 
my brought the baby to her. Margy reached forth 
her arms eagerly and took the precious little bur- 
den. The baby was six months old, fat and rosy, 
with a merry twinkle in her eye. Margy perched 
her among the pillows, laughing and talking; she 
answered with delighted little coos and chuckles, 
her round face close to the face of the young moth- 
er, bending in adoring ecstasy over her. 

[i8o] 


SDf tbt mtau 

Suddenly a quick, unwilling tear dropped on the 
baby’s dress, and Margy buried her face in its fine, 
soft folds. She could not begin to analyze the 
thoughts that crowded upon her. 

For while Margy was learning the sweet old 
truth that love multiplies in the giving, — she knew 
that no child could ever take her husband’s place; 
that not even her babies could heal the wound his 
anger made in her heart. 

A noise in the hall arrested her attention; the 
door was thrown violently open, and a wild little 
figure bounded into the room. He ran to Margy 
and buried his blazing face in her lap. 

''Why — Preston, — what’s the matter?” 

"Do ’way! Do ’way! I tole her — do ’way!” 

Margy straightened herself with the baby in her 
arms and Preston tugging at her skirts, to greet 
Julia, who had followed close behind. 

"Come in, — I’m so glad to see you!” with the 
quick light of welcome in her face. 

Julia entered, bringing a breath of cold air in 
her fine furs, mingled with the strange sweet per- 
fume whose subtle odor lingered wherever she went. 
Her black eyes glowed from her calm, pale face, 
standing out against a background of long plumes 
drooping from a closely fitting toque. 

Her quick eye took in the scene at a glance, and 
the trouble in Margy’s face did not escape her. 

"I came — on up. I thought you’d hear my car.” 

"I guess I wasn’t listening,” Margy replied. 

"No maid to-day?” Julia asked brightly, as she 


C6c %itrett0t|) 

loosened her fur coat, and, with a graceful move- 
ment of her tall body, shook herself free from it. 

“Need you ask?” Margy replied, with a sort of 
despairing moan. 

She placed the baby in her swinging basket; her 
little rosy face and pink head imbedded itself in the 
soft down. She lay there, cooing, — contentedly 
happy, playing with her chubby hands and watching 
the faint sunlight dancing along the lace ruffled 
canopy of the crib. 

Preston, with a cavalry soldier mounted on a 
prancing horse held tightly in his arms, stood over 
against the couch, his big blue eyes flashing defi- 
ance toward Julia. 

Julia seated herself easily, and held out her arms 
to him. 

“What have I done, Preston?” 

For a moment he did not stir; then he looked 
toward Margy, who was regarding him steadily, 
and hung his head. 

“Please excuse him, Julia, — we are all cross,” 
she said. 

The little fellow had caught the sadness in her 
face and voice. 

“Tuse me;” but the appeal was made to her. 

Julia caught him in her arms; he suffered her 
caress, and pulling away, he seemed to dismiss them, 
and busied himself with his toys. 

With an effort that was altogether perceived by 
her visitor, Margy asked many questions about 
last night’s ball. Julia leaned back in her chair and 
answered in careless, friendly indifference. 

[182] 


tbt menu 

“I am so glad that you could go with Douglas, 
Julia,”* she ended at last gratefully. “I don’t know 
what he would do without you, — or any of us, in 
fact.” 

Julia covered her mouth with her jeweled hand, 
and her eyes narrowed. 

“Douglas said you were ill,” she ventured. 

“I was only — utterly tired,” was the frank an- 
swer. Julia looked out of the window. 

“February is a month of slush in Graydon and 
body and soul-fatiguing dampness,” she replied. 
“Let me be your physician, dear. You have the 
blues! Glaring symptoms for which a new hat 
might be a good remedy.” 

Margy laughed. “I have more hats now than I 
have the time to wear.” 

“A false diagnosis, — is it?” Julia replied lightly, 
smoothing out her long gloves. “Let me try again. 
If a woman isn’t anxious about her hats, — it must 
be her husband’s heart.” 

Margy’s face brightened, and Julia smiled. 

“I have less to fear from his heart, — than from 
my own temper,” Margy replied, remembering last 
night. 

“So — it’s that, is it? The seamy side of home 
making.” 

Julia was feeling her way, and the wall of 
Margy’s reserve broke down under the spell of her 
tactful raillery. The jarring incidents of the past 
few months lost their dramatic significance, and 
she poured forth at some length an account of her 

[183] 


C6e Sittettgtfi 

own shortcomings, of the domestic trouBIe, and of 
Douglas’ relaxation of tenderness toward her. 

Julia listened, lowering her eyes on the cracking 
fire to hide a too intense eagerness. 

‘^All married life, my dear, has its different 
phases,” she said at length, raising her fine head 
and looking sideways at Margy. "‘It is never well 
for a woman to love her husband — too much !” 

‘‘What!” 

“Or — rather — to let him know it — too well I” she 
quickly corrected. “It’s always bad policy. It 
panders to their egotism and makes them careless 
and indifferent” 

Margy pondered over this thought a moment, 
then raised her clear, gray eyes and met Julia’s 
with a most engaging frankness. 

“Douglas knows — how I love him! I guess, 
maybe, I haven’t known just how else to manage.” 

“It is much easier to win a love — than it is to 
hold it!” Julia said shortly. “But you are tired, — 
morbid; this is only a shadow ” 

“Some shadows become frightfully real at times,” 
Margy replied earnestly. 

During the pause that followed Julia watched 
her. Her hands were idly playing with the long 
silken cord that bound her waist. She looked 
very young, very helpless, — and a momentary pity 
stayed Julia’s keen intelligence. Then she laughed 
aloud. 

“You must give up the luxury of these blues, 
Margy,” she said ; “you must find something broad- 

[184] 


©f tfie mtak 

er, — more amusing than servants and babies. You 
ought to join a club ” 

“I hate clubs!” Margy interrupted with wistful 
passion. 

'‘Nevertheless, it might help you! At any rate, 
you must develop new interests, dear. You are 
young, — beautiful. You must not allow all the 
bright promise of your girlhood to become absorbed 
in the trivial, petty affairs of domestic life and of 
your household. Douglas is — a plain man — the 
issue of the times; a complex, exacting twentieth 
century product, — swayed by selfishness! 

"My dear — if you think that by centering your 
whole interest in the management of your home and 
babies you will retain thereby your husband's won- 
dering admiration — you are wrong! You will be 
bolstering his conceit, and become warped and 
narrow. We all have a debt to society, — and in 
your case it isn’t a light one, — is it? Douglas has 
transferred his every interest down here, in Vir- 
ginia. Your position in Graydon is unquestioned. 
It was not necessary for you to make assertions to 
establish yourself. You simply accepted a place 
that you had held all your life. Douglas has been 
most proud of you! He has worshipped, shel- 
tered, showered you with luxuries. He likes to go 
out — and your first duty is to him — am I not 
right?” ' 

Margy was silent, and Julia continued: 

"Graydon expected much from Margy Preston, 
and had a right to expect it! You will acknowl- 

[185] 


C6e 

edge that socially you have been — a disappoint- 
ment 1” 

** Y — ^yes ! But how could I do otherwise ? What 
time have I had for anything? I haven’t been idle 
— these babies ” 

“It isn’t necessary to have so many babies,” Julia 
interrupted dryly. 

Margy’s eyes grew big; then the long lashes 
fell, and she felt the warm blood rush to her face. 

“A woman should protest against being naught 
but a child-bearing adjunct to man,” Julia went on, 
with a shrug of her shoulders and a slow, grim 
smile, belied by a hardness in her eye. “Why should 
any man expect his wife to be content with all 
that fails to satisfy himself? How many days 
would Douglas spend, — as you spent yesterday? 
You must not sacrifice your life; you have some 
duties to your own self.” 

During this speech Margy sat upright. 

“Sacrifice! Duties!” she repeated vaguely. 
These bits of worldly wisdom had chilled her; she 
was climbing very painfully the tree of knowledge. 

“Douglas isn’t like that, — at all!” she finally as- 
serted stoutly. “He was hurt and grieved, last 
night, because I couldn’t go! He has left no stone 
unturned for my happiness. I know that! He 
moved down here to please me! He built this 
house and furnished it for my comfort and delight. 
He’s been everything that’s kind, — of course, it’s 
all my fault, — somehow ! He wants me to be hap- 
py and gay, always !” 

“Then — my dear, — you must do it,” Julia inter- 

[i86] 


fl)( tbt ti0eaK 

pored. ‘‘You must keep yourself bright and light- 
hearted. Take my advice, Margy I Borrow a man- 
tle of new philosophy to meet present demands. 
It will serve your purpose, — it will keep you 
amused. Shall I tell you what it is?” 

“Yes — ^yes,” eagerly. 

“Then — start all over again! Go — everywhere! 
Make yourself attractive to other men ! In a very 
innocent, harmless way, of course! It will please 
Douglas, — and, should it displease him, it will make 
you only the more adorable in his sight! And al- 
ways keep clear of any discussions.’’ 

“Oh — I haven’t the courage or daring for any 
sort of — ^plot!” said Margy. 

“It’s the one sure way to bring him to his knees,” 
Julia continued, not heeding the interruption, “and 
it can do no harni, — but will keep you amused and 
interested. I think, perhaps, I know Douglas a 
little better — than you do! And you — ^you haven’t 
been quite able to adjust yourself to the scheme of 
things, — have you?” 

“I’m afraid — I don’t know — just how! Life is 
very — mysterious ! It’s hard to know what is right ! 
If I go out much the house will be neglected, and 
Douglas is terribly particular! He can see dust 
that’s invisible to the ordinary eye!” 

Julia smiled. “Some people have a genius for 
orderliness — Douglas is one of them. He can’t 
help it — it’s the inheritance of generations!” 

“I — suppose so!” 

“But it isn’t worth while for you to become agi- 
tated over trifles. You will break down. A tired, 

[187] 


Cf)c 

fretful wife is no companion for any man. I tell 
you what I’ll do, Margy. You have a good cook, 
you say?” 

“Yes.” 

“I’ll send Maggie to you for a housemaid.” 

“She won’t come,” Margy laughed. 

“I — think — she will,” was the even answer. 
“Maggie is fairly intelligent, and she will make a 
capable maid, — and with Mammy, — you can man- 
age nicely, — can’t you?” 

“Will you — oh — will you?” 

Margy clasped her hands on her breast and 
sprang to her feet. She threw her arms around 
Julia’s neck. 

“Oh, — I love you so! You always know what 
is right and best I No one ever had a truer friend ! 
You’ve brightened the world for me to-day. I 
was so blue! And now — I will — I’ll do just what 
you say! Send Maggie this afternoon, and she’ll 
clean up everything! I’ll keep myself rested and 
light-hearted. I know, — oh, I know it’s always been 
my fault! How could Douglas be tender and con- 
siderate when I was so cross and ugly? There’s 
to be a party aboard the Franklin, this very night! 
Robert sent us cards, — and we’ll go, — we’ll go ev- 
erywhere!” 

“Robert!” 

“He is down for a week or two. He dropped in 
yesterday. He and Lieutenant Folk are old friends. 
But — but I’m afraid I’ll spoil things if Douglas 
should be the least bit unhappy. I couldn’t stand 
that!” 


[i88] 


SDf tbt mtak 

The color bloomed in her face, her eyes shone 
bright and brilliant. 

Julia glanced at her an instant. 

‘‘You have only to be patient — and — wait!’' she 
said. 

“It seems that I spend most of my time^ — wait- 
ing!” Margy replied wistfully. 

“All women do!” was the laconic reply. 

Preston dropped his toys and began fumbling 
with the knob of the door. The next moment they 
saw Douglas standing outside with a huge bunch 
of pink roses in his hand. When Margy caught 
sight of him her heart bounded. As he crossed 
the threshold, his foot stumbled among the blocks 
and toy soldiers, but he caught himself awkwardly. 
Margy buried her face among the roses, and closed 
her eyes a moment, while Douglas removed his hat, 
and extended his hand cordially toward Julia. 

“How like you — to come to-day. Margy’s face 
shows what you have done to her.” 

“I am just leaving,” Julia replied, a little stiffly. 

He threw off his heavy overcoat and helped her 
with her furs. 

“Don’t let me run you away.” He spoke with 
genuine regret. Then he caught sight of the sun- 
light streaming across the old Bokhara rug. He 
stepped briskly across the room, and lowered the 
shade. Julia’s eyes followed him with amusement. 

“Won’t you kiss me good-bye, Preston?” she 
asked, stooping over the child. 

Preston drew back and held out his hand toward 
Douglas. 

[189] 


Cfte 

‘‘Oh, — you want Dada to take you, — ^^do you, you 
little beggar!^' cried Douglas, lifting him in his 
arms. The child turned swiftly with a little clutch- 
ing motion, and buried his pink face on his father’s 
shoulder. Douglas’ eyes flashed triumph over him 
to the others. 

When the door had closed upon Julia, Margy 
peeped into the crib where the baby had fallen 
asleep. 

“Give Preston to Mammy, Douglas,” she said. 
“I have so much to say, — I want you all to my- 
self.” 

Douglas carried the boy to the nursery. Margy’ s 
eyes followed them with an infinite tenderness. 

“And you put me first?” he asked, as he took 
her in his arms and looked at her. 

Margy snuggled down cosily in his embrace, and 
wound her pink arms around his neck. 

“You — first?” she repeated. “Yes, always!” 

“Even before — them?” as he stroked her dishev- 
elled hair. 

“Before — everything! But, of course, we need 
never think of that! I’m crushing these gorgeous 
roses. How sweet of you, Douglas, for I am the 
one to bring a peace offering. It was all my fault 
last night, — have you forgiven me?” 

He seated her in a big chair in front of the 
grate. With both hands he lifted her silk-shod 
ankles and placed her feet on the fender and a 
cushion behind her back. She settled down with 
a snuggling, contented little sigh ; the flickering fire- 

[190] 


©f tbt Oleafe 

light danced about her, — the roses rested on her 
lap. A rosy flush diffused her face. 

“How you spoil me, dear!” 

He took the vase from the mantel and threw 
the faded flowers into a waste basket; carefully 
refilled the vase with fresh water, and arranged 
the roses in it. Then he picked up the toys scat- 
tered on the floor, and carried them to the nursery, 
wheeled a chair close beside her; half encircling 
her in his arms, he rested his head on her breast. 
He felt her heart beat against his face, her arms 
encircled his neck, her hand caressed his hair. 

“Oh, woman, — loyal, insincere, charming! All 
the tangled skeins of life are the work of your fin- 
gers. All the sins and sorrows, — aye^ — the joys, 
too!” 

“Oh,” she cried playfully, “I thought you were 
more of a man, — than to place — all the blame on 
me!” 

“What could be more manlike, dear, — than to 
put all the blame on a woman ?” he parried. “Adam 
did it, — do you expect me to be better than the 
first model?” 

She laughed. “But youVe always known that 
I’m not perfect, — haven’t you?” 

“Perfection is about the hardest thing to for- 
give in anybody,” he answered. “Little blunders, 
little sins and failures keep our hearts warm, dear.” 

They stayed thus for half an hour or more. 
Words were dispensed with ; something, some subtle 
influence seemed to pass from one to the other; 


Cfte Strength 

something more precious than words. The golden 
moments slipped by. 

^‘Nothing — nothing could ever come between us, 
Douglas, — could there 

"‘No — no, my darling, — how absurd!” His eyes 
were dreamy, tender. 

“It seems very wonderful, after all, — that you 
should love me. Don’t move,” she whispered, as he 
stirred. “I love to feel your weight against my 
heart!” She bent her head toward his, and their 
hair mingled. 

“My dear little girl, — do you realize that this is 
in the morning, — and that I ought to be at work?” 

He raised himself awkwardly as she released 
him. 

“Work!” Margy pouted. “You think too much 
of making money!” 

He settled himself in his clothes with a shake, 
and smoothed his hair. She saw that already his 
mind was alert. 

“It’s my everlasting business — to make money! 
Have you any idea what it costs, — to keep us go- 
ing?” 

“Not the slightest!” 

“Well — somebody has to ! You like pretty things, 
don’t you? Then — I must work for them,” with 
a glance around the room. 

Margy flushed. “Is that rug too good for the 
floor, dear? If it is, — please hang it on the wall! 
I saw you lower the shade. We must have sun- 
shine, you know!” A touch of irritation was creep- 
ing into her voice. 


[192] 


Df tfje tcaeafe 

‘‘If we don’t take care of things and keep them 
” he began patiently. 

“But, — they needn’t keep us!” Margy flashed. 
“I know I’ve been rebuked by every article of fur- 
niture and drapery in this room! I’m in abject 
bondage to them, — their very slave! But — oh — 
what am I saying! Oh, dear!” 

She came up to him and put her arm around 
his neck again ; her heart was vivid, warm, dancing. 

“Forgive me. Everything’s going to be different 
now ! I meant to tell you all about it, — and I for- 
got! Julia is going to send Maggie ” 

“Maggie!” 

“Yes, — she says that she can persuade Maggie 
to come and be our housemaid. Isn’t that sweet of 
her! And everything will always be in order. I 
am going to begin all over again, and go out with 
you everywhere, — and dress in my prettiest clothes, 
and look my best, — and be just as happy, — as you 
want me to be! I’ll begin this very night. Come 
home early, dear, — and we’ll go to the Franklin, 
and — and — I’ll wear my ivory satin dress!” 


[193] 


Cl)c Sitrengtl) 


CHAPTER II 

A COVERED TRAIL 

J ULIA FARWELL made her way down the stairs 
and out of the house with a wildly beating 
heart. 

“Drive, — ^^drive for an hour! Then — put me out 
at the oak wood in Cheshire, — I’ll walk in 1” 

The chauffeur climbed into his place. Julia sank 
back into the deep seat and closed her eyes ; a great 
horror was upon her, — a horror of the conflict she 
must face! 

She carried with her a vivid living vision of the 
room she had just left ; the baby asleep in its cradle, 

• — Douglas with Preston in his arms, the tangled 
yellow curls like fine spun silk clustered against 
the blackness of his coat, head nestling on shoulder ; 
Margy standing beside them, burying her face, shin- 
ing with its woman’s aureole of happiness among 
the roses, — and around and about them all — the 
soft, red flickering fire light! The thought of her 
own apartment, with its luxurious emptiness chilled 
her; no, — she couldn’t go in, — not just yet!” 

Julia’s heart closed throbbingly. The face that 
tortured her most was that of the boy, — the child 

[194] 


flDJ tfje (DHeafe 

that should have been hers! There was in her soul 
pain and hate and stinging barbs of unfilled desire. 
She never looked at the child, — with Douglas’ eyes 
and every line of Douglas’ face, — that she didn’t 
see tantalizingly before her the treasure of which 
she had been robbed! Hateful, hateful, he was to 
her, — speaking more eloquently than words, both 
of the tragedy of her life and the passion of the 
insignificant girl who had supplanted her, — for 
Douglas, the idol of her heart, the man she had 
worshipped for years ! 

Julia turned her haggard face and looked through 
the glass of the limousine with despairing eyes! 
The mask was ofif! She was alone, — with her 
bleeding soul cowering beneath the blackness of her 
thoughts ! 

By what gray chance did she — she — Julia Far- 
well, — stand apart to witness, analyze, hunger? 

But during her conversation with Margy, hope 
and possibilities had opened before her in the very 
heart of discouragement. The one tangible fact 
that meant more to her than all things else was 
that Douglas was wretched. It manifested itself 
against his will in many unmistakable ways to her 
skilled eyes. She could read him, as another reads 
the written pages ! His pitiful attempts at conceal- 
ment wrung her heart! 

The scene had given stimulus to her ; why should 
she hesitate? She had reached in that hour one of 
those psychological crossroads, where she must 
choose from divulging paths. And, once started, 
she knew there would be no turning back for her! 

[195] 


Cfje 

In the deep of her soul the eternal warfare be- 
tween the powers of light and darkness went hand 
in hand, and a consciousness of this made Julia 
herself, in her saddest hour, wish that she had 
never been born! 

“God!” she sobbed aloud. “I cannot unlove — 
and that is the pitiful part of it!” 

The closeness of the car seemed to smother her! 
She must get out — out into the open! She was 
almost fighting for breath, when it finally stopped 
and the door was swung free. 

Ah, — what relief! She walked rapidly through 
the wood; her skirts caught, now and then, in the 
tangled briars, but she pulled them ruthlessly away 
and hastened on. In her nature, with its touch of 
Indian blood, there was at times a passionate de- 
fiance toward the fetters of civilization that bound 
her. She longed to shake off the shackles and 
stand in primitive freedom, — and fight, fight, fight! 

These moments of lawlessness were infrequent, 
however; habits and conventions of generations 
kept such primal impulses in check. But she hadn't 
gone far before she knew that there would no 
longer be any wavering with her; that she would 
fight — in her own way! 

Did Douglas think, she wondered, that she had 
resigned all right to him, — even in the face of an- 
other’s possession ? His destiny was one with hers ! 
Their ways had diverged for a time only. There 
was in her love for him something of the anxious 
trembling of a mother for her child. It was a love 
of maternal yearning, — of intellectual devotion, of 

[196] 


©£ tfie mtnk 

psychic enthusiasm, in which the physical was trans- 
formed into vibrations of the soul’s intimate com- 
munion. It was her right and her duty to crush 
down and stamp out — everything that lay between 
them! 

One awful June day, three years ago, she had 
been plunged into a vortex of life’s currents, — a 
vortex that had submerged many a stronger swim- 
mer than she I Every emotion, every ambition, ev- 
ery ideal of her life had swept on and emptied itself 
in a wide sea of bitterness! Since that day she had 
been a watchdog, — waiting! Ah, she had learned 
the lesson of waiting and patience well! 

Julia Farwell’s fine intelligence would have fro- 
zen in horror and disgust at the thought that she 
could be a mere victim of jealousy. She was the 
self-appointed guardian of a noble idea, — Douglas’ 
destiny was indissolubly linked with hers! She 
must save him from the full fruition of his folly 
in marrying a little luxury-loving, vacillating weak- 
ling! She would forgive him, — the wrong he had 
done her. There was no wavering in the belief of 
her inalienable right. 

Oblivious of all physical sensations, Julia walked 
back and forth through the little stretch of wood. 
Scheme after scheme beckoned and repelled her; 
plan after plan was caught up, only to be rejected. 
New devices, fresh modes of approach and attack 
revealed themselves to the woman’s quick brain. 
She registered a vow, — that from that hour she 
would follow the one road where her nature led 
her, — it vexed her to try to choose another guide! 

,[197] 


Cfie ^trengtf) 

She would save Douglas from a lifelong martyr- 
dom. She would fortify him against the inevitable 
time when he must awaken to emptiness — boredom 
— utter vacuity. It would alarm and hurt; she 
would stand ready to soothe and heal. He would 
be older, wiser, sadder, perhaps, — but he would be 
hers, hers! With all the strength of her mind she 
still had a woman’s pitiful belief in dead love’s res- 
urrection ; the glamour of old days would yet sway 
them again! Ah! She would rekindle the fire of 
sweet comradeship and communion of mated souls. 
She would gather together ashes, — dead and scat- 
tered; her love would warm them into life! 

With the hovering powers of evil still pressing 
closely about her, she could almost feel the black, 
flapping wings behind her every step she took ; she 
gave herself over to her dreamings, with the blood 
hammering in her ears and quickly pulsing throat! 
It would deepen, rise, die away, — rise again like 
the beat of the sea, with its hidden note! As her 
mind reverted to Margy, flames shot up within her 
and burned with consuming fury! 

Any other man could have taken Douglas’ place 
with her. And she — had led him to her ! The irony 
of it! 

With that relentless power of intellect, from 
which her emotions were never entirely separated, 
she began deliberately to play in imagination with 
the fulfillment of her desire. She stood still a mo- 
ment and raised her head; everything about her 
proclaimed a figure of tragedy. Suddenly she felt 
weak ; her knees were trembling ; she looked around 

[198] 


f>f tfte iiaeak 

for some place to sit down. She found a half-dry 
bench under a spreading cedar. 

How the wind roared through the treetops and 
among the dead leaves! A few snow flakes played 
through the raw, cold air; the damp earth wafted a 
pungent odor. A growing bunch of mistletoe, with 
its waxen berries turned black, winked toward her 
from the branch of a tree near by, like a mocking 
malignant eye! Here and there through the trees 
shone bright red holly, waving their crimson blood- 
drops restlessly in the wind ! 

A noise behind attracted her. She turned, and 
her eyes followed a crippled child hobbling along 
the narrow path. His one straight crutch scattered 
the dead leaves as he went, so that his tracks were 
completely hidden, and only a faint disturbed trail 
marked the route of his painful progress. 

‘‘How he hides his tracks!’’ She spoke aloud 
with intent interest ; then added, under her breath : 
“ ’Tis always well to leave a covered trail!” 

Her attention was riveted on the misshapen 
child. His crooked back and limp legs suddenly 
assumed an uncanny significance to her. She felt 
drawn to him, as though they were of a kind, — 
for what matter if one is crooked and deformed, — 
whether in body or mind or — destiny! 

Impulsively she called him and opened her purse. 
The child turned and hobbled over to her, standing 
before her and leaning on his crutch; his dirty, 
ragged coat hanging loose and limp from narrow 
shoulders ; pinched, starved' face gazing awkwardly 

[199] 


C6e ^trcngt!) 

into hers. She saw that he was a mulatto. He 
fastened greedy, eager eyes on the purse. 

‘‘You look cold and hungry,” Julia spoke to him; 
“where is your home?” 

“Ain’ got none.” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Dey empties de ga’bage down yonde’,” pointing 
to a ravine beyond the wood. Julia understood; 
she had seen them swarming through the refuse of 
the city, like buzzards around a dead carcass. 

She shuddered. “Here’s some money, — take it. 
Go and get something good to eat !” 

The boy took the money and held it close in his 
shrivelled hand and started off. 

“Tell me,” Julia called after him, “I’d like to 
know just what you’ll buy with that?” 

The boy stopped and opened his fist upon the 
shining silver dollar. “I ain’ nebbe’ had no money 
— lak dis,” he grinned, his eyes shining. “I kin 
play crap — till kingdom kum!” And he was off 
at bounds. 

The incident had roused Julia, and she brought 
her mind slowly back to sober, calculating sense. 
She had much to do; she had been wasting precious 
time. She picked her way more carefully through 
the wood, and boarded a suburban car. As she sat 
down on the hard seat she felt that, after all, the 
time had not been lost; she had conquered, — re- 
gained a fixity of purpose and shrewdness of pro- 
cedure. 

She was now going to Maggie ! Her lips curled, 
— Maggie ! 

[200] 


2Df tfie JKleafe 

She alighted from the car and walked through 
narrow, unfamiliar streets until she mounted the 
steps of a large frame house somewhat more pre- 
tentious than the others, and pushed a button under 
a flaming sign, ‘‘West Side Inn.” 

The door was opened by a slatternly, mulatto 
woman in a soiled flowered silk kimono. Lounging 
in the hall, close to paper palms and artificial flow- 
ers, with his feet on the window sill, smoking a 
cigarette, sat Napoleon in the uniform of a United 
States sailor. He stared insolently, without mov- 
ing. 

“Law — ef it ain^ Mis’ Farwell, — cum right in,” 
fawned the woman. “I reckon yo’ wan’ t’ see Mis’ 
Lee, — she’s upstairs. But — set down, — ^you’ll have 
to ’sense things — they’re sorte’ messed up ” 

“Maggie is in, you say?” Julia cut short her 
apologies. “I’ll go to her room.” 

“Hit’s de fus’ do’ fum de top o’ de steps,” di- 
rected the woman, brazonly staring at the diamonds 
in her ears and the elegance of dress and figure. 

Julia rapped and entered. A heavy, murky at- 
mosphere seemed to strike her in the face. She 
looked sharply about her. A huge bottle of cheap 
perfume was ostentatiously displayed among a con- 
fused collection of toilet articles on a dresser. The 
dresser was white, with wild pink roses painted 
across the center of each drawer with the regularity 
of soldiers on parade. A battered mahogany fin- 
ished desk in a corner was littered with half -writ- 
ten sheets of paper, and a rickety gilt chair with a 
red bow of ribbon tied on the back was placed be- 

[ 201 ] 


C6e 

side it at an inviting angle. A green plush ‘^set’* 
and an oak bed, folded into the semblance of a 
wardrobe, completed the room. 

Maggie, with natural pride in so lavish a setting, 
welcomed Julia with a broad grin. 

‘‘How do you do?” she greeted politely. 

Julia turned her head slowly, and levelled pene- 
trating eyes full upon her. “You’ve come a long 
way — since I lifted you from the mud of Clam 
Creek, — have you not, — Maggie?” 

Somewhat taken aback, Maggie’s eyes dropped, 
and the grin froze on her face. “Yes-um.” 

Julia sat down on the gilt chair and loosened 
her neck, — what a stifling room! Maggie seated 
herself, and looked questioningly at her visitor. 
She had divined that the errand was a disquieting 
one. 

“I have come on an important mission, this 
morning,” Julia began, “and I haven’t time to mince 
words.” 

She paused ; perhaps it would be just as well not 
to be too abrupt. “The march of your upward 
progress has been upon rather gilded stepping-stones 
— so far — hasn’t it ?” 

Maggie looked blank. 

“I mean — ^that you have never had to do any- 
thing that was distasteful to you?” 

“No-um.” 

“Well — I now want you to do something that 
you may not exactly — enjoy. But I am sure you 
will see the wisdom of it — in the end. I want you 
to take a position as housemaid for Mrs. Lloyd.” 

[202] 


©{ tfte mtnk 

Swift blood surged in Maggie’s swarthy cheeks. 
Her eyes blazed under gold-rimmed glasses. She 
sprang to her feet, — raging openly. 

*What! Me! Force myself to be a drudge for 
Margy Preston, — never! Put myself in voluntary 
service? It’s asking too much — even from you! 
Admit to her — and to all my friends, — that I must 
sink down to that level — that I am no better than 
— than — that! What would people say? What 
would my friends think ? It’ll be known, — why — it 
might even be — published!” 

Julia smiled. “Suppose it is — published in the 
papers,” was her even reply; “no clever person 
reads — even the newspapers, literally, nowadays. 
One has been known to read their own death no- 
tice — in a marriage column.” 

Maggie tried to comprehend. “Is that so — yes- 
um,” but this phase of Julia’s reasoning was but a 
jumble of words to her. 

Julia had expected to meet objections; they were 
more obstinate than she had looked for. She was 
too sure of ultimate triumph, however, to be patient 
of delay. 

Little did Maggie realize how helpless she really 
was in the hands of one so adept; one who over- 
rode difficulties, — accustomed to bend and control 
all contrary forces, and use them for her purpose. 

“You seek to be a leader of your people,” Julia 
went on. “I have helped you organize a servants’ 
union — the Rebeccah League; it has grown to be 
a force, felt in the city. You are the president, — 
you are proud, — you hold your head high, and this 

[203] 


Cfte ^trengtft 

is right! But you have undertaken a great work, 
and if you expect me to continue to help you — you 
must equip yourself with every weapon in your 
power/’ 

Julia began to turn over the loose sheets upon 
the desk. “You are preparing a speech — a lecture, 
now — are you not?” 

“The mass meeting, — you know,” explained Mag- 
gie proudly. “It comes off next week, — and a big 
banquet will follow. We expect to have two thou- 
sand members by then.” 

Julia swiftly scanned the pages. One glance re- 
vealed the contents : A conglomerate mass of bom- 
bastic rhetoric — and bad English. 

“Don’t you see — that all you can say to them is 
— theory and hearsay? You must live — as one of 
them! Enter a typical Graydon household, and 
study your problems there! Then your arguments 
will be based on personal experience, and hence 
convincing, unanswerable.” 

“Of course,” Maggie replied thoughtfully, “I 
ain’ never worked out except at Glen Haven, — and 
everything’s different.” 

“Glen Haven and Graydon represent two dis- 
tinct types of civilization, — they have little in com- 
mon. What is this?” she asked, holding up a long, 
narrow strip of paper made of several sheets pinned 
together. 

“That’s my — list,” Maggie answered, a little 
constrainedly; “all the members of the Rebeccah 
League report the places that are undesirable to 
live in ” 


D{ tbt CQeak 

‘‘Mrs. Douglas Lloyd’s name heads the proces- 
sion,” Julia remarked, with a smile, her face fixed 
on the paper. 

“There’s been much complaint from six-nineteen 
Colonial Arch.” 

Julia bent her head lower over the paper. “What 
kind of complaint?” 

“Oh, — it’s been general,” Maggie fenced. 

“There! Don’t you see, you don’t know^ — just 
what the complaints are! How can you expect to 
suggest remedies? One must be able to build up — 
before one tears down!” 

Maggie was silent a moment. 

“I’d do anything on earth for you! I wouldn’t 
mind, — being your maid ” she suggested ten- 

tatively. 

Julia shrugged her shoulders. “That’s utterly 
— beside the question ! I am expecting two Swedes 
from the North to-morrow.” 

A sharp, feverish color sprang in Maggie’s 
cheeks. 

“Well!” a tone of defiance was in her voice, “if 
they’re colored, — I can tell you right now, — they 
won’t have no ’sociates with us ! For our church” — 
with a swell of pride, drawing herself up — “is our 
standard ! And of course^ — being Swedes, they be- 
long to the Swedenborgean Church, — and we can’t 
recognize them! Our church has all the best so- 
ciety! We’ve got fourteen hundred members, and 
the finest preacher there is! He wears a silk hat 
and kid gloves, — every day! We pay him a big 
salary, and he says who’s who, — I can tell you! 

[205] 


Cj)c Sittengtf) 

He’s hand in hand with the league, too. He told 
me yesterday that he’d read out our list in church, 
every Sunday morning!” 

‘‘You mean to say,” exclaimed Julia in amaze- 
ment, “that your minister will read out at morning 
service a list, made out by you, of Gray don house- 
keepers who are considered undesirable to work 
for?” 

“That’s ’xactly what he’s going to do,” repeated 
Maggie testily. “Why — he told them last Sunday 
that nobody need expect him to speak to them on 
the street if they had on the badge of service!” 

“Indeed! And what is — the badge of service?” 

“It’s the white apron! So, — they ain’t no use 
for white folks to expect their nurses or maids to 
ever wear a white apron on the street! Not at all 
— for they won’t do it!” 

Although staunch and stubborn in her main pur- 
pose that she’d be a “servant to nobody,” Julia’s 
argument had impressed her. It added dignity and 
importance to her mission, as elaborated for her 
by Julia’s skillful touches. 

“I have two objects in wishing you to take this 
place,” Julia continued guardedly. Her hands were 
so near trembling she reached a cup on the desk 
and took from it a string of beads with which to 
keep them occupied. “I’ve given you the first and, 
of course, the most important; the other is — a per- 
sonal one.” 

Maggie listened attentively. Her dull mind ap- 
proached very slowly the gist of what Julia was 
saying. And so cautiously were the plans unfolded 


©f tfie JOeak 

that the actual purport of them escaped Maggie, 
as Julia had intended that it should. 

‘‘That is settled then — is it?’’ she ended, care- 
fully returning the beads to the cup and rising to 
her feet. 

“You can depend on me,” Maggie replied. “I 
see that you know best, as you always do. I’ll be 
there — in the morning.” 


[207] 


Cfee ©ttengtli 


CHAPTER III 

GATHERING CLOUDS 

NEVER saw you so gay, Mrs. Lloyd/' Alfred 
Mayer remarked, in an undertone. Margy 
looked at him curiously, holding an oyster poised on 
a fork over a saucer. How disagreeable his manner, 
she thought! Then she threw back her head and 
laughed. 

“Gay!" She spoke loud enough for the entire 
group gathered around the great driftwood fire on 
the beach to hear. “Why shouldn’t I be gay? My 
house is in order, — my silver’s polished, — my 
clothes are hung up! Maggie’s a jewel — a dream!" 

“Do I understand," Robert Norwood exclaimed, 
“that Maggie is with you — as a servant ?’’ 

“Every amazing part of her,’’ laughed Margy, 
helping herself to the oysters steaming in their 
shells on the wide pan he held toward her. “Gold 
tooth, — gold spectacles, — pompadour, — silk petti- 
coats, — bracelets, — rings, — cologne !" She shook 
salt and pepper daintily over the saucer and turned 
the oysters in the melted butter. “Not even Mag- 
gie is yet emancipated from the negro’s love for — 
perfumery! She can’t resist it; my bottles shrink 
alarmingly, — but I don’t care!" 

[208] 


€>f tjje meaK 

“It’s rather refreshing to find a weak spot in 
such grotesque perfection !” spoke up Louise Lloyd. 
“Maggie’s eyes are the disturbing quality about 
her; she has such a queer look.” 

“They follow me around like a foretaste of the 
day of judgment,” said Margy, with a shrug of her 
shoulders ; “but it’s worth a great many creepy feel- 
ings and a great many bottles of scent, to be free 
and rested again ! She’s welcome to all we’ve got !” 

They were standing on the beach, directly in 
front of the “Wayfarers’ Club” on Lynnhaven Bay. 
A piece of perforated sheet iron, two yards square, 
was placed over a fire of wood and brush, and 
upon this the oysters were roasted, primitive fash- 
ion. The club was a shingled house built high up 
on the sand, with wide, rambling porches across 
the front and swinging around the two wings, — the 
one butting toward the bay, the other running up 
into the sheltered inlet. 

It was one of those rare still days in February, 
when the sun shines in blazing Southern glory, — a 
fine interlude between cold and rain and slush. 

Margy was fresh as the morning, in trig, gray 
tailored suit, — rich, full furs, — large, black picture 
hat, — flowing plumes. 

“Robert — you look pinched and cold! You’ve 
waited on us, and are starving I Here — let me feed 
you!” 

She sat down on the sand, curling her feet up 
under her, and playfully pulled him down beside 

her. 

“That’s right ! Now — open your mouth ! Wider, 
[209] 


Cfte Sttengtft 

— oh — wider, — don’t you know the size of a Lynn- 
haven? There, — that one will keep you busy for a 
while. Louise, — fill the saucer, won’t you — quick! 
Here we go again — Robert — ready?” 

Robert obediently opened his mouth and received 
the oyster from the replenished saucer, looking with 
dancing, amused eyes into Margy’s eager face. 

Margy had kept her word to Julia; she had gone 
everywhere, danced everywhere, laughed every- 
where! She had flirted audaciously, always grace- 
fully and harmlessly. Maggie’s arrival had come 
as an almost miraculous escape from crushing dif- 
ficulties. Freed from prosaic domestic confusion, 
she plunged into a frenzied round of gayeties ! Life 
was easy and beautiful! Dinners, balls, luncheons, 
— every form of pleasure-seeking which the little 
city abounded in followed each other in rapid suc- 
cession. Once fairly started, the fever of unrest 
and excitement seemed to lay hold upon her. Ev- 
ery path smoothed itself before her advance; she 
was always the vivid center of an admiring throng. 
Douglas watched her success with delight and pride. 
Wlierever she went her youth and beauty, charm 
and grace of manner were a perpetual challenge! 

At first the struggle to maintain this pose direct- 
ed by Julia had resulted in queer contortions. But, 
after all, laughter was easy for Margy, and soon 
she found herself in reality as light-hearted as she 
had at first simulated. Secretly, she was proud of 
the skill with which she had adapted herself to 
somewhat delicate conditions. Her brain, as well 
as her heart, seemed to be stimulated by what an 

[ 210 ] 


ffl)f tbt mtnk 

undiscerning intelligence would have called, — hap- 
piness. Many times she had surprised even Julia 
by a quick sword-play of wit, and the bright secur- 
ity and daring confidence with which she bore her- 
self. 

It was inevitable that she should thus unwit- 
tingly sometimes place herself in compromising po- 
sitions, — and that Robert Norwood, the one person 
of all others with whom she was safest, should be 
the target, — when rumor fluttered her breast and 
passed on swift wings. 

During the three years many changes had taken 
place on South River. Old estates, rotting in ruins, 
had been bought by Northern capitalists and re- 
stored to more than former splendor, with added 
habilaments of modern luxury. Uncle Lee had 
taken advantage of the wave of prosperity, and in 
the flush of full tide sold the remnant of the old 
place that was still in his possession, moved his 
personal effects to Beechwood, and made his home 
there. 

Robert had established a land agency for the 
county, and, with the increase of values and de- 
mand for sales, had opened temporary offices in 
Graydon. He had settled himself comfortably in 
bachelor apartments, and was a daily visitor to the 
home on Colonial Arch. He was always sure of a 
delighted welcome from Margy and the babies. 

‘'What a — charming picture! But one can’t eat, 
even roasted oysters forever, — I’m thirsty!” 

Alfred Mayer’s drawling voice interrupted them, 
just as Robert was struggling with the last oyster, 

,[2Il] 


Cfje 

an unusually large one. Suddenly he sprang to 
his feet, brushing the sand from his clothes. 

“Go on — we are coming,’’ he said brusquely, 
helping Margy up. 

In a momentary flash she was acutely conscious 
that Mayer’s face was red, and the look in his 
small, dull eyes revealed to her that he had already 
quenched frequent thirst from the decanters of the 
club. Robert headed the group up the wide plank 
steps toward the house. 

They swept into the hall, where Douglas and 
Julia sat before a great fireplace filled with roaring 
logs. The flames shot up the chimney and sent 
dancing light over polished floor and raftered ceil- 
ing. Julia was reclining leisurely in a heavy armed 
chair, hands loosely clasped in her lap; Douglas 
comfortably content with pipe beside her. 

“Gad! See the old folks!” Mayer snorted, 
spreading his hands to the blazing fire. 

Julia raised her finely poised head for an instant, 
smiled in silence toward Margy as she approached 
them, and resumed a study of the roaring logs. 

Douglas removed his pipe, and regarded them 
quizzically. 

“What’s the fun shivering down there on the 
beach, when one can eat in peace and comfort up 
here?” 

“What’s the fun — of fun, at all?” challenged 
Margy. “An oyster roast isn’t an oyster roast, — 
except out of doors! It was glorious, — wasn’t it, 
Louise? I’m not through yet! I want to go to 

[ 212 ] 


tl)e iKHeafe 

Cape Henry, — and roll down the highest sand hill 
there !” 

Douglas emptied his pipe and knocked it against 
the brick hearth. 

'*1 have an engagement at four ” he began, 

standing up and shaking himself awkwardly. 

“Did I ask — you?” Margy queried archly, look- 
ing up at him out of the corner of her eye. 

Mayer, who had disappeared soon after they en- 
tered the room, returned with a wide-spread hand- 
kerchief wiping the corners of his mouth. 

“You say, — ^you have an engagement, Miss Far- 
well,” he blundered. 

“Did I say so?” flashed Julia, with a sudden 
significant lifting of the head as she brought her 
long figure to its full height. “But it happens — 
that I have!” she finished irritably. 

“Now — now, wh — what did I say?” Mayer 
looked blankly from one face to the other. “I 
heard ” 

“Keep your knowledge to yourself!” Robert 
spoke in low voice close beside him. Douglas had 
put on his heavy coat and stood, bundled to the 
ears, watch in hand. 

“Look here, Margy — you’ve forgotten that 
you’ve invited all these folks to dine with us to- 
night!” he asked, somewhat brusquely. 

“No, indeed! I haven’t forgotten!” 

Margy shook out her long fur and threw it over 
her head, fastening it snugly about her slim neck. 
“I left Maggie in full charge of everything — and 
it’s such relief!” with a doleful sigh. “Everything 


Cf)e 

will move lilce clockwork; your dinner will be per- 
fect ! Maggie is far more capable than I am !’' 

'"But, — -I thought, — the baby ’’ 

‘The babies are with Mammy, — they’re all right, 
of course. Don’t be tiresome, Douglas! Are you 
coming, Robert?” 

Margy’s brightness continued, even under Doug- 
las’ prolonged look. She felt acutely his stern 
disapproval, — but Julia’s slow smile reassured her. 

By the time Robert reached her she was slowly 
going down the long steps; she was surprised to 
see Mayer preceding her, walking a trifle unsteadily. 
Robert started the descent, paused a moment, and, 
turning back, called Louise. 

“Won’t you join us?” he asked pleasantly, as she 
came on to the porch. 

Louise’s puzzled eyes first followed the couple 
ahead, as they forged their way through the heavy 
sand toward the little station shed, — then they came 
back to him. Something that she saw in his face 
made her blush prettily. 

“I — guess so,” she replied. “I’ll tell Douglas. 
We’ll be back early, of course?” 

“Of course.” 

Margy had scarcely entered the Cape Henry car 
before she wished that she had gone home with 
Douglas. 

What had caused her to do this ? Really, — it was 
not necessary, even to carry out the pose she had 
assumed. She found herself on the seat with 
Mayer, who, with an endless flow of words, was 
giving her an incoherent exegesis on the art of 

[214] 


©f tfie mtak 

choosing a wife. Never having attempted the feat 
himself, he felt qualified to expand. She let him 
talk, — a sickening disgust stealing over her. What 
a bore the man was ! She couldn’t understand why 
Douglas held on to him. She remembered hearing 
him say that Mayer had a better business head than 
he, — even when he was drunk! 

Ugh! Margy shrugged her shoulders and dis- 
missed him, settling herself down snugly into the 
corner of the seat, and turning her attention to the 
brilliant world without. 

The car rocked along its undulating tracks, mile 
after mile, through the deep sand hills. Here and 
there clusters of green scrub pines broke the dull 
monotony of ragged stubble and dead lush grass. 
In low places beside the tracks water was hemmed 
in shallow, stagnant pools, and over their slimy 
surface withered water lilies spread broad, black- 
ened leaves. 

Margy’s eyes rested fondly on the scene, made 
beautiful to her by the gleaming ocean beyond and 
the light of the sun on the white sand. 

Robert and Louise, on the seat behind, addressed 
her from time to time, but she did not hear them. 
Mayer was too much engrossed with his own sharp- 
ened wits to heed her lack of attention. 

Suddenly, with a pang, she felt Douglas’ eyes 
following her as she had left the club. They were 
flashing stern disapproval, — that was plain. But — 
after all, she must go on with the ghastly task; 
she must follow up her success, — submit to more 
boredom; must be always ready for fresh compli- 

[215J 


Clje SttengtS 

cations, — and all — all — not to social triumph in the 
end, — but to escape in security from it ! She thought 
with delight of the return home, — Mammy upstairs 
in the nursery, — Preston’s noisy welcome, — baby’s 
dimpled smile, — Douglas’ protective nearness, — a 
well-prepared, well-served dinner with her friends! 

She had not been away for so long, — in months 
and months I Surely she deserved one whole day’s 
freedom! Freedom? Freedom! At the moment 
life seemed very perplexing, — blundering! Margy 
was conscious of a quivering, nameless uneasiness, 
— she knew not what ! 

Her eyes followed a great freight steamer com- 
ing in between the capes, looming dark, forbidding 
on the horizon, — plowing its heavy way through the 
deep shimmer of sea, with its winding trail of black 
smoke behind ! 

When the car had left them standing alone on 
the red brick platform at Cape Henry, the crisp air 
quickened the springs of youth within her! All 
around stretched the wide expanse of white sand, 
rolling upward into tall, sloping hills behind, with- 
out a touch of green, except a faint line of the tops 
of pine trees in the distance. In front was the 
ocean, — with its roaring surf and dashing spray, — 
a towering lighthouse stood at one side, a life- 
saving station and a few cottages at the other. 
Margy was always happy with the odor of the sea 
in her nostrils and the salt spray in her face ! The 
wildness and isolation thrilled her! 

“Shall we go up intq the lighthouse, Margy?” 
inquired Louise. 


[216] 


2Df tfee Witak 

“Yes — yes,” with parted lips, head held high, 
“down the beach, — up the lighthouse, — over the 
sand hills, — everywhere, — everywhere !” 

The hours did not drag, after all. Margy was 
tired, but eager, when they finally alighted from 
the car in Graydon. 

“A day — long to be remembered,” said Mayer 
pompously, as they were crossing the footbridge 
over the Hague to Colonial Arch. 

“And the best of all — is to get back home,” 
Margy answered. Robert glanced at her and 
smiled, as the electric arc light on the bridge fell 
full upon her face and he saw the sweet content 
and joy shining in her eyes. She kept rapid step 
with him, reaching the house ahead of the others. 
She tripped lightly up the broad marble steps and 
pushed the bell, impatient feet busy as she waited. 

Mammy Clo opened the door, with baby snuggled 
in her arms. Margy looked at her in surprise. 

“Did you have to come down? Where’s Mag- 
gie?” 

“She’s upsta’s, — she ain’ bin in long.” 

Margy heard Douglas’ voice with Julia’s in the 
library, but she passed through the hall, following 
Mammy. Quick intuition had read worry in the 
old woman’s face. Once inside the dining-room door, 
Mammy halted. 

“Ma’gy, honey — ^yo’ cook’s gone!” 

“What!” 

The word was little more than a gasp. 

“Maggie — she kum down here, en wus dingin’ 
awders e’round. She say, you lef’ her in full cha’ge! 

[217] 


C6e ^tttnstb 

Liza, — she sot rite down en she say, she ain’ gwin 
tu be put in cha’ge o’ no biggity nigger ! En — she 
walks ’erself off — I couldn’t do nothin’ wid ’er!” 

''When was this ?” Margy asked sharply, looking 
around the room. The table was perfectly ap- 
pointed, the house spotlessly clean; Maggie had 
done her work well ! 

"Dis mo’nin’, — jest afte’ you lef’.” 

"And Maggie, — where is Maggie? She pre- 
pared dinner, of course?” 

Mammy Clo shot a troubled side glance at Margy 
and dropped her eyes. 

"No-um. Maggie won’ kum in de kitchen fo’ 
nothin’! She won’ eat ’er meals, — ’cept in de pan- 
try. En I ain’ bin able to put baby down, — she’s 
bin fretful, — en — en — dey jest ain’ no dinne’, hon- 
ey.” 

Margy lugged at her glove, miserably conscious 
of the laughter and talk that issued from the li- 
brary. 

"Where is Maggie?” she demanded again. 

"In ’er room, I reckon.” 

Margy hurried to the third floor and rapped on 
the door of Maggie’s room. A shrill but cheerful 
"come in” bade her enter. As she crossed the 
threshold, a subtle, sweet odor seemed to almost 
stifle her. In the midst of her perplexity and anger, 
it puzzled her. Was Maggie becoming addicted to 
the use of Frangipani, — or — what was it? Then 
Margy smiled, as in a flash she recognized the 
strange perfume that Julia had always affected. Her 
inferences were conclusive ! Maggie had been to see 

[218] 


ffl)f tbt mtau 

Julia, — and perfume is “perfumery” to any negro, 
no matter how rare or costly ! 

“Maggie/’ Margy began, facing her sternly, “will 
you please explain to me what has happened?” 

“Certainly, — I can explain,” smiled Maggie, ty- 
ing an apron around her waist and carefully 
smoothing down its crisp folds. “Your cook left 
soon after you went out. She had some silly idea 
about taking her orders from me. She’s a very 
ignorant, superstitious woman ” 

“She’s the best cook in Graydon,” asserted 
Margy angrily. 

“I wrote out a carefully prepared menu for 
luncheon and dinner,” Maggie continued, in an even 
tone. “I was explaining it to her when suddenly 
she put on her hat and walked out.” 

“And you — why didn’t you get dinner?” flashed 
Margy. “You knew that I had invited guests!” 

“Me? Cook dinner!” exclaimed Maggie, feigning 
astonishment. “It’s strictly against our rule to go 
outside of our own prescribed work.” 

Margy turned on her heel, — her eyes flashing. 

“Prescribed fiddlesticks! Indeed! And — ^you’ve 
been out, I see?” 

“I always take a constitutional, every day,” was 
the unruffled answer. 

“You’ve been in Miss Farwell’s apartments, — 
haven’t you?” Margy asked carelessly, her mind 
busy, — groping to find a way out of her difficulties. 

“No, — I haven’t.” 

“What !” Margy eclaimed sharply, — acute at- 
[219] 


Cfte ^tttnetb 

tention arrested with a shock. “You haven’t been 
in Julia’s rooms ?” 

“No!” 

Maggie faced her for a moment defiantly, before 
she opened the door and moved down the hall . 

Margy stood still, wide-stretched eyes following 
the retreating figure. 

“I wonder — why she lied to me — about that!” 


[220] 


S>t tbt Wtnk 


CHAPTER IV 

CONFUSION 

■jY/T ARGY’S old-rose and gold-paneled sitting- 
room never appeared more restful and attrac- 
tive to her than when she and Louise entered it at 
midnight, that same evening. She unwound a lace 
scarf from her head and threw off her long fur- 
lined opera cloak, standing free, in Empire evening 
dress, of dainty, shimmering silk and lace. 

“Julia seemed a trifle provoked that I insisted 
upon staying here to-night,'’ said Louise; “but, of 
course, she understands. I promised her that I 
would return to-morrow, if you do not need me, 
Margy. I’m not good at much, but I can cook a 
little.” 

“Heaven-born gift,” sighed Margy from the 
couch, where she had thrown herself. “But I be- 
lieve it is harder work being gay than it is being 
housemaid.” 

“You managed this evening beautifully,” de- 
clared Louise. “When you called me upstairs and 
told me the cook had gone, I confess I was panic- 
stricken! Then amused to watch the splendid dar- 

[ 221 ] 


Clje %itrengt!) 

ing with which you took things in hand, ordered a 
special dinner at the three dozen Ameri- 

can beauties for the center. Everything was lovely 
and went off without a hitch ! Douglas was the only 
one that seemed even surprised.” 

‘‘All that’s — easy!” said Margy with emphasis, 
her arms resting among the pillows, with head 
thrown back. “But — to try to manage a house 
when your husband knows how many biscuits a 
quart of flour will make — is another matter!” 

Louise laughed easily. “Douglas can get more 
wear and tear — nervous worry, desperation and de- 
spair — out of a few bodily creature discomforts 
than most men from a whole life of crime or poli- 
tics!” said she. “He was an old maid ten years 
before he married.” 

“Me !” There was an emphatic finality in the lit- 
tle word. “And — I would never have been an old 
maid if I had lived a thousand years and not mar- 
ried at all! It’s just not in me, Louise, to be — 
orderly! I try — I make resolutions, dozens a day, 
and break them in ten minutes !” 

“But — the evening was perfect, after all! And 
Douglas adores you, Margy!” 

Margy’s face brightened. She sat up straight. 

“He could’t keep his eyes off you,” Louise con- 
tinued, “I watched him noting your dress, your 
hair, your throat; everything about you delighted 
him. Your refusal to be downcast — the exquisite 
art with which you overleaped all difficulties — 
amused him immensely!” 

“It’s to be hoped the amusement will continue—^ 
[222] 


Df tbt mtak 

after the bills come in!’’ replied Margy dolefully, 
but her face had brightened and her eyes danced. 

“You think Douglas liked my dress? It is 
pretty, isn’t it? But, oh, have you seen Julia’s new 
pearl-gray satin — it’s a dream — a pipe dream !” 

“She’s expecting it every day. I heard her say 
it should have come yesterday. Julia looks a trifle 
thin and pale, I think. But — I must go; Douglas 
will be back presently. He was going to take her 
to the door, he said. Good night, dear.” 

Margy smiled brightly, stretching out her arms 
toward the soft fire-glow a moment, before she dis- 
appeared into her dressing-room. She disrobed 
swiftly, her mind very busy. Ah! she was suc- 
ceeding, after all! She would win! And then — 
she could give it all up, and never, never be tor- 
tured again, by the haunting spectre of losing 
Douglas’ love! She would settle down — live quietly, 
go out occasionally, but not at this maddening pace I 
She knew now that everything would be as Julia 
had foretold. Julia had rescued her, saved her 
frotn becoming a nagging wife, of yielding to ma- 
tronly untidiness, as she had seen so many young 
mothers do! What a superb woman Julia was! 
How clear-sighted, how experienced! Margy de- 
spaired, however, that she could ever grow enough 
like Julia, not to fear intellectual comparisons. No 
amount of effort could ever evolve a Julia Farwell 
out of her — Margy Preston! And yet — Douglas 
loved this Margy Preston — the sweet wonder of it; 
and she — she worshipped him! Margy’s face rip- 
pled as she recalled how Douglas’ eyes had followed 

[223] 


Cfte Qitrcngtft 

her during the evening, and of what Louise had said 
to her. It was worth this frightful plot, for to her 
it seemed at times a horrible deception, an intrigue, 
unworthy of her, or of Douglas! But — a woman 
must resort to these things, Julia had said, when so 
much is at stake! And she would walk cheerfully, 
gladly, over hot plow-shares if Douglas’ arms 
awaited her, and she could reach them no other 
way. 

She tiptoed into the nursery and hovered over 
the cribs, tucking covers snugly around the little 
pink necks. A bare foot of Preston was projected 
between the railings. Margy clasped it in both 
hands and covered it with kisses before she pushed 
it in. 

All the time she was unconsciously straining her 
ears for Douglas’ footfall on the pavement. The 
first faint sound in the distance she recognized ; her 
heart leaped as the familiar latch-key turned in the 
door. 

He found her, a radiant little figure in pink 
neglige — one of those marvelously becoming gar- 
ments that seemed to hang loose from the shoulders, 
and yet cling to every soft curve of her body! 

‘‘Douglas — Douglas,” she greeted him, bare arms 
flashing around his neck, and burying her face on 
his shoulder, “you do love me, don’t you?” 

“Yes — yes, I love you, Margy,” as he returned 
her caress, “what are you going to do — about a 
cook?” 

Margy’s arms dropped. 

“Oh ! dear ! Let’s not bother about that now !” 

[224] 


®f tbt mtak 

Douglas took off his dress-coat, and slipped on a 
black velvet dressing-gown, lighted a cigar and set- 
tled himself in a chair for a final smoke. Margy 
perched herself on the arm, and bent over him. He 
leaned back and smiled thoughtfully; he met her 
eyes and the smile deepened, but there was little 
mirth in it. 

‘'When I try to go to sleep, Margy, I’ve got to 
have some sort of sense of comfort ! I hate confu- 
sion! Our home is getting to be a kaleidoscope; 
one never knows what to expect next — scenes con- 
stantly shifting. Life pitched to a high key of ex- 
travagance and tumult !” 

“I thought you enjoyed to-night,” said Margy 
wistfully. 

“I did; the dinner was fine.” 

“Every course was a special order.” 

“I thought so! You were radiant, beautiful. The 
roses were gorgeous. We can’t dine every day like 
this. We've got to have a cook!” 

“Oh, well, I’ll get one to-morrow.” 

“How?” 

“Maggie promised to bring one with her. If she 
doesn’t. I’ll go out and hunt one up.” 

“Hum!’' Douglas placed his half-burned cigar 
across the corner of a table, and stood up; Margy 
fell back a step or two from him. He planted his 
feet squarely on the floor and thrust both hands into 
his pockets as he faced her. 

“We had better reorganize the entire household 
management,” he announced. 

“What!" she faltered. 

[225]' 


Cjje ^trengtf) 

‘Well, there’s Mammy!” He spread out his 
hand in an impatient gesture. “She does nothing 
all day long but hold that baby and amuse Preston 1” 

Margy looked up at him. “Did you ever hold a 
baby all day long, or amuse a small two-year-old 
boy all day long?” 

He looked quizzically at her. “If you had — you 
wouldn’t call it — nothing!” she ended with a hint of 
defiance. 

“But it ought to be combined with certain other 
duties,” he persisted. “She really requires an extra 
maid to wait on her. Toys and baby things fill this 
house — floors, furniture — everything !” 

Margy opened her eyes wide. “What else is our 
home for — but for them,” she protested. “Every- 
thing is always sweet and clean — even you must 
admit that. The surface litter of a baby’s play- 
things will not hurt anybody!” 

Her eyes flashed and he saw sterner lines about 
her face than he had ever seen before. “Mammy 
Clo will live with me just as long as she lives!” 
she went on. “Wherever I am, that is her home. 
She has been everything to me, and I love her — I 
love every wrinkle in her old withered face. How 
can you want to send her away! I — I ” a ris- 
ing sob in her throat checked her. 

He took her in his arms. . “There — there — never 
mind, never mind! We’ll say no more about it; 
she’ll stay, and we’ll do the best we can.” 

Margy dabbed at her eyes with a lace web of 
handkerchief. 

“Maggie is such an — upstart! She has no feel- 
[226] 


} 


fl)f tbt Cileafe 

ing, no consideration! I was so angry with her 
to-night I almost dismissed her.” 

'^Maggie was right,” Douglas stated calmly. “It 
was a purely business proposition with her. That’s 
the right way to manage anything; base everything 
on business principles! She was engaged to do 
certain work, and she does it well !” 

“Yes; but you know, it’s always been customary 
when the cook left for the housemaid to do the 
cooking until another took her place — and think 
nothing of it !” 

“Customs change,” he replied dryly. “Maggie 
lives up to the light she has!” He picked up his 
cigar and walked restlessly back and forth. “After 
all, what chance has she! Storms began brewing 
for her — long before her eyes ever opened on this 
earth !” 

“Well, if that’s so,” cried Margy, “I hope our 
home won’t be the center of them! She had better 
leave at once!” 

“You’^d be in a pretty fix without her now, 
wouldn’t you ?” 

Margy made no reply ; there seemed none. Sud- 
denly she came close to him and gently pushed him 
down into the chair, and crept into his arms. 

“Dear, don’t let’s quarrel to-night. We have 
each other — nothing else matters ! I’ll do and be — 
everything on earth that you want! I’ll make my- 
self into one of those dull, drab-colored little wo- 
men, who find their pleasure in being stingy, in 
doing without, in saving, saving, if you say so! I’ll 
learn to sew — I’ll turn all my clothes, use black un- 

[227] 


Cfie @)tren0ti) 

derwear, and sleep in outing, if you say so! I’ll 
count every penny, I’ll measure the flour, weigh the 
lard ” 

Douglas threw back his head and laughed. ‘‘Oh, 
hush! hush! Margy!” 

“But you know, Douglas,” she went on, her face 
shining in her delight at lifting the depression 
that weighed upon them both, “even they — such 
women — have their bad moments ! I’ve seen them ! 
There’s the awful anguish of paying for things! 

I wonder ” she drew back playfully, taking his 

face between her hands and holding it at arms’ 
length, “if your grandmother wasn’t one of them! 
Ah,” she nestled on his shoulder again and kissed 
his neck, “you do love me, don’t you, Douglas — 
just as I am? You wouldn’t change me, would 
you, dear?” 

“If I fell in love with you, just as you are, is it 
likely that I would change you now ?” 

“Julia says that it’s easier to win a love, than it 
is to hold it!” Margy stated, covertly searching his 
face. 

“Julia knows little about such things. She lives 
in the clouds. A great woman — in her way! But 
I haven’t told you how lovely you were to-night, lit- 
tle Princess! How satisfied, flattered you must 
have felt, at the admiring eyes that followed you !” 

“Oh, if you only knew how little I cared! One 
approving glance, one little compliment from you, 
is more to me, than the homage of the world !” 

“It appeared so to-night,” Douglas laughed teas- 
ingly, as he stroked her cheek. “You scarcely 

[228] 


2Df tbt mtnk 

looked at me or spoke to me ! You leveled all your 
guns on Robert; seemed a trifle uneasy that I 
wouldn’t see his admiration for you! Take care, 
vain woman!” 

*'0 — h,” Margy gave a contented little sigh, ‘T’m 
so happy, Douglas, I think Fm the happiest woman 
in the whole world!” 

He made a move to rise. ''Look what time it 
is? You must go to bed. Fll get out early as 
usual.” 

It seemed to Margy that she had scarcely touched 
the pillow before she was awakened suddenly by 
the baby’s crying. She slipped out of bed, glanced 
at Douglas’ sleeping figure, threw a heavy dressing 
gown around her and tiptoed across the little sitting 
room. 

In the nursery, with the baby across her lap, 
Mammy was making vain efforts to soothe and 
quiet. 

"Mammy, dear, go to bed,” Margy said as she 
tossed fresh kindling on the dying fire. "I’m not 
as tired as you are. Let me have her. Now go 
to bed and rest and sleep — poor Mammy!” 

Thus, by some weird fatality, her holiday was 
followed by harrowing night attendance on the baby, 
whose habits had been disturbed during the day. 

The hours crept by, the house grew very cold. 
Margy put more fuel on the little grate fire from 
time to time, wrapped baby snugly in her blankets 
and nestled her at her breast. 

At six o’clock Douglas found her thus. 

[229] 


C6e ©trcngti) 

‘"This house is as cold as a vault. What on earth 
is the matter?'’ he asked brusquely. 

“The furnace fire must be out,” Margy replied 
patiently. “You know Liza’s husband attended to 
it, and of course ” 

“Of course! I’ll fix it.” 

He rushed from the room, jerking off his coat as 
he went. Margy had opened her mouth to speak, 
but she faltered. She could not begin a contro- 
versy this morning, that had been closed with a ca- 
ress last night. 

About the middle of the morning, after Louise 
had prepared breakfast, with multiplied apologies 
for tardiness, Maggie brought in a new cook. 

“She’s not ’xactly a friend of mine, but she’s a 
member of the League.” 

“Do you know anything about her?” asked 
Margy. 

“She’s all right,” Maggie assured evasively. 

The woman was duly installed in the kitchen with 
what sounded from upstairs like a veritable blaze 
of trumpets. Aunt Violet, the “old-time cook,” had 
an alarmingly loud voice and a still louder laugh. 
But Margy thought to herself that these little draw- 
backs were too insignificant to heed. 

At lunch, her faith began to wane, her spirits 
fled. The biscuits were hard and black; the pota- 
toes soggy ; the steak a crisp, tough string. 

“Oh, well,” said Margy, “she seems obliging and 
is willing to learn, I guess. We can buy bread.” 

Louise was silent. After luncheon and Margy 

[230] 


m tbc meak 

had gone to her room, and the babies were asleep in 
the darkened nursery, she made her way stealthily 
down to the kitchen. She felt sorry for Margy; it 
was evident that she was tired and discouraged. 
Louise thought to be helpful and make a few sug- 
gestions. Aunt Violet was in the act of sweeping 
up the kitchen, with many flourishings of the 
broom, when Louise entered. 

‘'So you are getting things straight?” she in- 
quired. 

“Cum in, missus, cum in,” with a sweeping bow 
and placing a chair for her. 

“No, I won’t sit down,” said Louise in a precise 
voice. “I just thought — I thought I’d tell you that 
we like our potatoes cooked a little differently from 
the way we had those for lunch. Everybody has 
their own preferences, of course, and it takes a lit- 
tle time to get accustomed ” 

“Law, chile,” Aunt Violet burst in, “you go ’long 
ba’k upsta’s en set down in de pa’ler! Taters! 
Hum! I cooked taters fo you wus bo’n!” 

Louise retreated. She rapped on Margy’s door, 
and receiving no answer entered softly. Margy 
was lying across the bed, fast asleep. Louise placed 
a light coverlet over her, and opened the door to 
confront the new treasure from the kitchen with 
a sailor hat perched on the top of her broad head. 

“I’m a-goin’l” she announced. Louise stepped 
quickly into the hall and closed the door. 

“I ain’ used to livin’ wid w’ite folks w’at inter- 
feres! I’se used to livin’ wid ladies, I is, en ladies 
don’ cum prodjurkin’ round my kitchen!” 


Cfte ©trengti) 

Louise paid her for a day’s work, ushered her 
down the stairs and out of the house. She stood 
still a moment, trying to think. She must do some- 
thing, and that something would be — to get dinner. 

At the kitchen door she met Maggie. 

‘^There’s a girl at my boarding house that wants 
a place,” she volunteered, ''perhaps she might please 
you all.” 

Louise surveyed the kitchen. How was it pos- 
sible for the place to get so untidy in such a short 
time ! 

"At least she can wipe up the floor,” she replied. 
"Get her!” 

In half an hour Maggie had the girl ready for 
work, and Louise hopefully instructed her about her 
duties. "But, first, wipe up the floor,” she finished. 

In a few moments she came back to the kitchen 
door and stood watching the new maid’s lazy eflforts 
in speechless wonder. 

"Here!” she exclaimed at last impatiently, "you 
don’t know how to wipe up a floor — let me show 
you!” 

With strength and courage born of disgust, 
Louise got down on her knees and took the brush 
and scrubbed with vigor. The girl watched her in- 
dolently. 

"And remember,” she finished, as she straight- 
ened herself, "that no floor can be scrubbed without 
plenty of elbow grease.” 

After waiting a resonable length of time she re- 
turned to the kitchen to give instructions about 
dinner. The girl met her in the back hall. 


tbt meafe 

‘‘Mis’ Lloyd, I looked, en dey ain’ no elbow 
grease nowhar!” she whined. 

Louise arms dropped to her side. “You’re right, 
there’s none in the house. Here’s your pay for an 
hour’s work — you can go !” 

“Yes-um. What shu gimme dis fer? Ain’ I 
cumin’ ba’k in de mo’nin’ ? Hit’s time fer me t’ go 
now — hit’s fo’ a’clock!” She extended her hand 
with the piece of money. 

“Time for you to go?” Louise repeated. “You 
mean to say, that you go every day at four o’clock 
when you’re engaged by the week or month?” 

“Dat’s de rule fer all cooks!” the girl asserted 
vehemently. ‘T’se a membe’ o’ de Rebecca’ League, 
I is, en ef’n we don’ keep de rules, we don’ git no 
premiums, en no funeral, ef we dies!” 

“Who prepares dinner if the cooks leave at four 
o’clock?” Louise asked with rising anger. 

“Don’ know nothin’ tall ’bout dat! We goes at 
fo’!” 

“Well, you can go and stay ! We’ll have no more 
cooks from the Rebeccah League — Heaven help 
us!” 

“I don’t think you quite understand,” Maggie ex- 
plained to Louise on the staircase as the latter was 
descending with a broad apron almost completely 
enveloping her. “Dinner is served in Graydon at 
three o’clock. It’s the custom among the older fam- 
ilies — and the lady of the house usually prepares a 
light supper.” 

“Indeed ! ! ! Will you kindly let me pass ?” 

Louise closed the kitchen door and fell to work. 


Cfie @)trettgtl) 

She was scarcely surprised to find that the store- 
room had been looted by one or both of the de- 
parted cooks. Giving a rush order to the nearest 
market, she prepared a dainty dinner and served it 
promptly at the usual hour. 

Louise’s face was troubled, however, as she heard 
Margy dragging herself down the stairs in answer 
to the cheerful summons of the little dinner bell. 

“I’m afraid you’ll scold me frightfully, Margy,” 
she apologized. “After you went to sleep I thought 
I’d take things in hand and help you — and mercy on 
us ! Aunt Violet departed in a huff. Maggie brought 
another girl, and I dismissed her !” 

“Spare me all details, please,” smiled Margy, as 
she took her place. She avoided glancing at 
Douglas, who sat stolid and immovable. “And you 
did — this?” waving her hand over the table, and 
raising grate/ul eyes to her. “Scold you ? Blessed 
Samaritan !” 


[234] 




CHAPTER V 

“KNAVERY’S PLAIN FACE” 

' I ^ HE dinner passed in rather heavy silence. But 
the irrepressible animal spirits of little Preston 
refused to be dampened even by the sombre atmos- 
phere around the table. At last Douglas pushed 
back his chair and gathered the little fellow in his 
arms. 

‘‘Here^ — here! stop your racket!’’ 

“Play bear, daddy; let’s play bear!” He wiggled 
from his father’s arms to the floor and flew across 
the room, yelling at the top of his small lungs, and 
pounding on the door. 

“Mammy! Mammy! where my gun! I want my 
gun !” 

Mammy came through the door from the back 
hall with baby in one arm and the child’s rifle held 
in her hand. 

The baby’s bright eyes danced round the room. 
She waved impatient little arms at Margy. Margy 
took her and carried her across the room toward 
Douglas, laughing and talking with familiar baby 
prattle. A smile of happiness and satisfaction over- 
spread Louise’s face, as she surveyed the little group 
and began to clear away the dishes. 

Preston grabbed his gun, spread his small feet 
wide apart, struck the attitude of an alert hunts- 
man, and called out: 

“Look out I Bang ! bang !” 

[235] 


C!)e 

He lowered his gun with disgust. 

“You don’t play right, daddy ! You ought to fall 
down — dead !” 

“Ah — I’m the bear, am I ?” 

Thus it began, and for an hour Douglas forgot 
everything but the joy and delight of playing with 
his babies. He galloped into the library with one 
perched on each shoulder, and there he made him- 
self into a horse, a bear, a wild Indian, a pirate, 
as Preston demanded. They barricaded the chairs 
in a corner and spread a table cover over them for 
d fort. At last Douglas submitted to capture and 
was being tied, his hands behind him, to a leg of the 
library table as a stake, when the door opened noise- 
lessly and Julia entered. For some minutes she 
watched the scene in silence. Margy with the baby 
were still safely covered inside the fort, and de- 
lighted little shrieks issued from beneath the table 
cover. But Julia did not smile even at Douglas’ 
wild head as it hung down dejectedly as though 
waiting for the flames, while his captor danced in 
war-whoops around him ! 

Preston saw her first, and in an instant he forgot 
his play and charged at her furiously. 

“Do ’way! Do ’way!” He pulled at her skirts 
and tried to drag her to the door. 

Her eyes hardened, but as Douglas quickly looked 
up, she came forward with a smile. 

“Am I intruding?” she asked. 

“Julia! Oh, no!” 

Douglas deftly loosened his hands and sprang 
to his feet, smoothing back his hair. With Preston 


©f tbt mtak 

clinging to his leg, he looked around the room. 
Good Heavens! What a sight! Margy crawled 
from between the chairs ; the baby clutched her neck 
and buried her little face poutingly on her shoulder. 

Margy advanced toward Julia without a trace of 
embarrassment. 

“Take off your wraps and sit down,” she said, 
lifting the table cover and placing a chair for her. 

“No, no, thank you!” She turned toward 
Douglas. “YouVe forgotten the Council meeting 
to-night?” she inquired. 

“By Jove!” he exclaimed. “Turn loose, son — turn 
loose!” He freed himself from the child’s grasp 
and jerked out his watch. “I think I can make it 
yet!” He made a hasty dash for the stairs. 

“We will go up to the sitting room,” said Margy. 
Julia followed her lead. 

“Louise has told me of your trying day,” she re- 
marked, as they entered the room above. She 
glanced toward the opposite door. They could hear 
Douglas bustling about in the bedroom. 

“Excuse me one moment, I will be right back,” 
Margy said, as she gave the baby to Mammy and 
opened the door. 

“What is this meeting, Douglas?” she asked as 
she came into the room. 

“Council,” he replied shortly. “I’m to present pe- 
titions from the Civic Union of the Woman’s Club 
— some of Julia’s pet hobbies — to have parks made, 
beautify water fronts, and so forth. Heavens! I 
must shave !” 

“I was so happy to have you at home with us to- 

[237] 


Cfie ^tren0t6 

night/’ Margy said wistfully. “Now I must stay 
alone !” 

He had rushed into the bathroom. 

“Where in thunder is my shaving cup?” he asked. 

Margy followed him and glanced around. 

“Oh — oh, I know! Preston had it. He was 
blowing bubbles. Let me see.” In a corner of the 
room under a tin horn and some broken pipes she 
found it. She washed it out and wiped it carefully. 
“Pm sorry!” 

“Now — my strop.” 

Margy stared. “Oh, dear, he had that around 
baby for harness.” She hurried into the other 
room, was gone only a moment and returned; the 
missing article was in her hand. He took it with- 
out a word. 

“Pm so disappointed — about to-night,” she re- 
peated. 

“It’s early, really,” he said cheerfully. “There’s 
a hop at the Navy Yard, you remember.” 

She made no reply. 

“Won’t Robert take you?” he asked carelessly, 
giving his razor a few hasty strokes on the strop. 

Margy started. Her eyes grew big and the color 
mounted her cheeks. 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked. 

She turned sharply and faced him. 

“Would you?” she flashed. 

“Sure! It’s a good plan. You’re safe with him; 
he’s safe with you.” 

“And you — don’t care?” with a catch in her 
voice. 

[238] 


ffl)f tbt mtuk 

‘What on earth are you driving at?” He raised 
his head with a jerk. “Do you want me to rant and 
tear my hair because you are happy and having a 
good time?” 

Margy turned a horror-stricken face from him. 

What was the meaning of it? Was Douglas 
laughing at her? Making light of what to her was 
so momentous, so important? Was he willing to 
leave her to be amused as best she could? Well! 
She would show him ! What did she care for an old 
hop, or anything, apart from him? Oh, dear! If 
she could only stay at home in peace! But she 
couldn’t — not yet! She had been indiscreet, as it 
was, in allowing Douglas to see that she had 
thought, that he cared ! She had been too eager to- 
night! She should have made him think that the 
change in his plans pleased her rather than other- 
wise ! There seemed many things to remember when 
one is playing a double part! But she would be 
more careful in the future! She turned abruptly 
and went into the other room. 

“Too bad, you’ve had no cook again to-day,” 
Julia’s voice was low and mellow as she greeted 
her. 

“Oh, we’ve had several,” Margy replied, holding 
her hand against her forehead. 

The other woman’s eyes narrowed. She seated 
herself. “I’ve been told of a good one^ — a Lucy 
Alston, who lives at 43 Hardy Street. When Rob- 
ert comes ” 

“If he comes I’ll have to phone for him. He 
doesn’t know that I want him for to-night.” 

[239] 


Cde ^tten0t|^ 

Julia laughed easily. ‘'Cooks hold precedence 
over — everything ! Are you going to the hop ? It^s 
a long trip. You really don’t care for it, do you?” 

“Not in the least. I never care for such things!” 

“You had best engage this woman at once. The 
Rebeccah League Hall is on Hardy Street. Louise 
and I are going there late in the evening. Wouldn’t 
it refresh you to hear Maggie speak?” 

“Indeed, no! I get quite enough of Maggie!” 
Margy replied sharply. 

Julia looked a trifle hurt. “In trying to help you, 
Margy, of course, I am thinking only of your own 
good ” 

“I know — I know,” Margy spoke eagerly; “don’t 
think I am not grateful !” 

Julia frowned and dropped her eyes. She felt a 
momentary twinge at the mute appeal in Margy’s 
pale, wistful face. She realized in a flash some- 
thing of the enormity of her cruelty. After all, 
Margy’s crime against her had been in falling in 
love with Douglas. Could she blame the girl for 
doing what many older and wiser women had done 
before her? Was this a just cause for hatred? 
Would it be the fulfilment of a lofty idea, or a great 
human cruelty? 

The course of her thoughts veered before they 
really found lodgment, and the next moment she 
felt a thrill of exultant triumph. 

Heretofore there had been something about 
Margy, some subtle hidden strength, that had puz- 
zled her. She had waited patiently. She felt now 
that at last she had full working knowledge of the 

[240] 


m the mtak 

weakness of Margy's inner soul, and there was 
nothing to fear. The very waiting had given her 
surer aim. 

‘‘How are your plans succeeding?” she asked 
evenly. 

Margy sighed. “Frankly, I do not know! I 
bungle things, I guess.” 

“Don’t get discouraged. I’ve watched you, and I 
think you are doing beautifully! Douglas is slow, 
but you will win. And when reward comes, as it 
must, you will feel repaid a hundred-fold.” 

Julia spoke with a calm, tortuous calculation. 

Margy’s eyes filled. “I can never thank you 
enough, Julia. If that time never comes, it will be 
my fault — not yours, for you have been everything 
that’s kind and good !” 

The door opened suddenly and Louise entered 
leading Preston, whose big blue eyes were droop- 
ing heavy with sleep. He climbed into Margy’s 
lap and curled himself in her arms. 

“Wock — wock^ — do s’eep!” 

“Oh, here, young man, I almost forgot,” Julia 
fumbled in her muff and drew out a small wrapped 
package. “I’ve brought you something. It’s an- 
other coach for your little electric engine.” 

Julia held it extended toward him. He raised his 
head and looked at her a moment, then burrowed 
his curls under Margy’s arm, without a glance or 
movement toward the gift. 

“He’s so sleepy,” Margy apologized as she 
plasped his sturdy little body and lifted him. Julia 
(loticed how small and delicate and graceful her 

[241] . 


C6e @)trett0t6 

hands and how she used them in fondling the child ; 
how she turned her neck, how caressing her voice 
and manner, as she bent over him. ‘‘I’ll get him 
ready for bed and rock him. It won’t take long.” 

“Won’t he go to bed without rocking?” 

“Perhaps he would, but I don’t want him to. It 
isn’t considered quite proper, I know, but it’s the 
sweetest thing in the world to me !” 

“Poor Margy!” said Louise as the door closed. 
“How much energy she wastes in rocking that 
child. It’s absurd! Tired as she is, she’ll rock him 
for an hour!” 

Julia smoothed the silky fur of her muff with 
long-pointed fingers. “Does she do it every night ?” 

“Some one does — either she or Mammy.” 

“I suppose,” said Julia thoughtfully, regarding 
Louise through half-closed lids, “that it’s hard for 
us to understand Margy, and be altogether just to 
her. These Southern people live on a different 
plane ! Oh, it makes my heart sick, when I see the 
tragedy of wretchedness and despair that is stamp- 
ing itself on Douglas’ face, as the pitiless tragedy 
of this marriage stands more and more revealed.” 

Louise was frankly shocked; Julia knew that she 
would be, and waited while the purport of her 
speech slowly revolved in Louise’s mind. She sat 
down, very erect, with hands tightly clasped in her 
lap, amazed eyes fixed on Julia’s face. 

“Oh! But — why — why — Margy’s a dear, Julia! 
She is young and she isn’t very strong.” 

Julia’s black eyes flashed. “She is indolent and 
[242] 


tfie meah 

lazy and shiftless! There’s no use to parry about 
it. You know it as well as I do. How can 
Douglas exist amid such disorder!” 

Louise was silent a moment. ‘‘Well, of course, I 
confess, there are things about the house that seem 
careless, yet she is an ideal mother! As for keep- 
ing house, what chance has she, or any one, with 
such servants! Everything about Margy is always 
dainty, and sweet and clean, and she fils me with 
a certain envy!” 

Julia’s lips curled derisively. “Envy her! Little 
chiffon-tissued creature! You ” 

A far-away dreamy look crept into Louise’s eyes. 
“She is made of finer stuff than most people! It 
was never intended that she should — grovel ! 
Above all else, Margy is a mother, and a wife; 
everything in the world is little and cheap to her 
compared to these things!” 

Julia smiled patiently. “Louise — Louise you are 
blinded still ! Even Douglas’ eyes are beginning to 
open now ! They’ve been married three years ; 
Margy has spent her time in luxurious idleness !” 

“Two babies — in three years! She’s not been ex- 
actly idle!” 

“Utterly incompetent to properly care even for 
her babies, or her home, or her husband,” Julia 
went on not heeding the interruption. She was feel- 
ing her way, but her companion did not understand 
the process. 

From the nursery Margy’s voice floated out to 
them, softly singing in high soprano: 

1243]- 


‘^Sail, baby, sail 
Out upon the lea, 

Only don’t forget to sail 
Back again to me.” 

The curves about Julia’s mouth hardened into 
straight lines ; she nerved herself with chafing impa- 
tience against a mute appeal that seemed to reach 
her, through the plaintive melody. An irrelevant 
thought flashed through her brain, like the breath 
of something cold, distracting. It must have been a 
kind of pity, similar to the momentary pity of Mil- 
ton’s Satan toward a victim. 

At length she threw back her head and sighed. 

^'Louise, I feel that I’ve grown old — in life! And 
it sears my soul, as with a hot iron, to know that 
there are things to be feared for Douglas!” 

“Feared?” 

“Margy is wilful, careless, incapable, thoughtless, 
let us trust that is all !” 

“All— Julia?” 

Julia clasped her hands about her knee and leaned 
far over toward Louise. They gazed at each other 
in silence. She lowered her voice as she said : 

“Surely — surely you have noticed?” 

“I have seen nothing,” Louise replied simply. 

Julia feigned surprise. “You mean to say that 
you do not know, what everybody is talking about? 
That you haven’t seen the lifted eyebrows, the shrug 
of shoulders, the half-veiled smiles, whispered 
hints?” 

“I’ve seen nothing,” Louise repeated. 

[244] 


SS>f tht mtak 

‘‘You do not know that people say that Margy 
and Robert are in love with each other ?’" 

Louise sprang to her feet ; her face went white. 

“Robert — no, no, not Robert ! He is incapable of 
such a thing! He is the soul of honor!” 

Julia drew back and looked at her curiously; why, 
she wondered, was her first defence on the side of 
Robert ? 

“Let us look at the matter calmly,” she went on 
hurriedly to cover a shock of genuine surprise. 
“Here it is in a nutshell! You knew Margy — as 
Douglas found her, a petted, spoiled child, in ro- 
mantic surroundings. She made an appealing pic- 
ture. Douglas fell in love with her, not for what 
she really is, but for what his loosened imagination 
pictured her to be! She fell in love with him for 
what he is — a strong, mature man of the world! 
He came into her life suddenly, and opened before 
her a daring, glittering chance to throw off the old 
withered crust of a decaying chrysalis, and burst 
forth into new life, the life for which her young 
heart ached, and around which her vivid Southern 
fancy wove golden dreams !” 

As she began speaking Louise stood before her, 
nervously clasping and unclasping her fingers. Julia 
did not raise her face toward her, but purposely 
gazed musingly into the fire. She lengthened her 
speech, so that by the time she had finished Louise 
was composed, and the color had crept back into her 
cheeks. She sat down again and Julia continued. 

“It was a pliant hour for her — for him! Her 
weapons were the witchcraft that beguiles the 

[245] 


Cfie 

strongest man, a fair skin, bright, dancing eye, wav- 
ing hair, supple girlish grace ! They win the lover, 
but of what use are they to the husband?” 

‘What is it — ^people are saying?” Louise faltered 
at last. 

‘T dare not ask myself that question! I know 
that Margy has felt herself abused, neglected. Her 
very Southern nature demands continued homage 
and admiration; it is the breath of life to her! 
Her vanity must be fed; Douglas is not a man, as 
you know, to make of life a honeymoon!” 

“And you think that — Robert — oh, it’s impos- 
sible, Julia!!” 

“Since you’ve been here, — has a single day passed 
that he hasn’t stopped by under one pretext or an- 
other — has there?” Julia insisted. 

“No — he comes every day,” was the answer. 
“He’s devoted to Preston. I’m sure you’re wrong! 
In your love for Douglas and for Margy, — you 
are over-anxious ! Margy has a pure mind, 
Julia ” 

“But a fickle one !” was the quick retort. ‘Doug- 
las won her very easily, — very quickly! He could 
scarcely hold a grudge against Robert, — if by chance 
he should win again!” 

A silence fell upon them. The sound of Margy’s 
singing had stopped; the house was very still. Julia 
glanced toward the door of Douglas’ room, as she 
leaned her head back against the chair, placed her 
feet on the fender, and fell into reverie. She had 
never once doubted that Robert loved Margy still. 
All of her plans had been constructed upon that as 


2)f tlje dOcaft 

a foundation fact! But the thought suggested by 
Louise’s unwonted agitation persisted ! How — how 
like Louise to blindly, blunderingly fall in love 
with him, to give her heart where it was least ex- 
pected, and, doubtless, least wanted 1 She had been 
fond of Louise in the old days. It would be a pity, 
— a sad pity! Robert would never care for her! 
But — shemiust make sure! There must be no hid- 
den links in the chain she was forging! Whatever 
happens, she must know every slightest detail ; must 
never loosen her grip as master of every situation ! 
She could keep this, — only by actual profound 
knowledge ! 

‘‘Oh, — no, no!” Louise finally broke the still- 
ness. “I would stake my life on her purity, — and 
his honor!” she added, with vehemence. “Margy 
loved Douglas ” 

“As much as she was capable — yes!” was the 
quiet reply. 

“Well, — if she loved him at first, even a little, — 
now, — the babies ” 

“No!” Julia’s eyes flashed, and she brought her 
hand down sharply on the edge of the chair. The 
quick, low cry rang out as if under a blow. “If a 
woman doesn’t love with all her soul — before — she 
would almost hate — then!” 

She rose to her feet and began to pace restlessly 
back and forth. “Oh,— I trust, I trust,— I am mis- 
taken!” she spoke, in low, cautious voice. 

“I know — you are!” Louise answered vehemently. 

Tulia stopped short and looked quizzically at her, 

«You — she queried uncertainly. 

[247] 


Cfic Sittengtft 

feel sure/’ Louise corrected. feel that I 
know !” 

Julia came close to her, and placed her hand con- 
fidingly on her shoulder. 

“Then — keep your eyes open ! Let nothing es- 
cape you! Watch Margy carefully! You will see 
that she says little, — makes few retorts, but mark 
you, Louise, — she carries out, — only her own will! 
Notice how she always prefers Robert! Douglas 
commands — thinks he is obeyed, — ^but — oh, well, 
watch her, and you’ll find the index, — obscure as it 
is, to her true nature !” 

Louise, keenly alive, every sense alert at last, sat 
very still and stiff, a prey to new and vague premo- 
nitions. 

“She is devoted to you, Julia, — can’t you make 
suggestions to her?” she asked anxiously. 

“I have done so ! But it’s hard for me to under- 
stand her, — to get her point of view. Of course, I 
cannot speak to Douglas of these things! I can 
only help him, — by trying to guide her!” 

“You’re the most faithful, most loyal friend to 
Douglas that a man ever had, Julia!” declared 
Louise. 

They both turned quickly as the door opened 
and Margy entered. She glanced around the room. 

“Douglas not ready yet? What can he be do- 
ing?” 

She crossed and rapped at his door. 

“Yes!” his deep, gruff voice responded, as he 
threw the door open and came out. 

“How long it takes you to dress !” smiled Margy. 

[248] 


SS>t tbt KBeafe 

*‘It takes time, — when one has to look for ev- 
erything under tin sledges, — horns, and blocks/* 

“You are going to the hop, are you Margy?” 
he asked carelessly. 

As Margy was about to speak, Julia interrupted. 

“I — I suggested to her that she look for a cer- 
tain cook on Hardy Street, — not far from the Re- 
beccah League Hall ” 

Douglas wheeled suddenly toward Margy. 

“You are not going to that Negro mass meet- 
ing?” he asked. 

Margy was standing idly toying with an end of 
a sash about her waist. She raised her eyebrows 
and smiled. 

“Oh, — I — don’t know!” She glanced languidly 
at him. 

Julia gave Louise a long, meaning look, and 
Louise’s heart sank within her. Ordinarily, she 
would have seen in Margy’s manner only a gay 
innocence, — a naive irresponsibility that was not 
without its charm to her. But, with the drops of 
poison that Julia had skillfully injected, fresh in 
her mind, she felt an evil, sinister intention under- 
lying all. She watched the scowl deepen on Doug- 
las’ face. 

“You do — no such thing! Surely ” 

“By the way, Douglas,” Julia interrupted again, 
stepping between them and following him to the 
door, “did I leave a little inlaid card case with 
you yesterday? I’ve lost it!” 

“Not with me,” he replied wearily. He turned 

[249] 


Cfte ^tttnstb 

to go, but wheeled back unexpectedly, a queer boy- 
ish smile lighting up his really haggard eyes. “Lost 
it, you say? I tell you, Julia” — he spoke in a loud 
whisper, looking over at Margy, and cooping his 
hand around his mouths — “you look in Margy’s top 
bureau drawer! Stir things round and round, — 
anything that’s lost will turn up presently! Any- 
thing, — from a tack hammer and fine laces to a 
diamond necklace and dust cloths! So-long!” 

Julia carried off the dubious joke with a laugh, — 
but the cut had been deep and Julia knew it. 

* :1c He * * * * 

“You are convinced?” Julia questioned, with an 
exultant look, as she and Louise closed the door 
and hurried along the pavement. 

“I don’t know,” Louise replied, unwilling to ac- 
knowledge to herself the fear that was in her heart. 
And she had not been able to forget a certain look 
she had seen on Robert’s face that day at the 
oyster roast. 

“Margy will go to that Negro meeting,” Julia 
went on; “I am sure of it! We will hurry, Louise, 
and come back by way of the Hall, and if they are 
there, — it will help matters somewhat, — if we join 
them, — won’t it? We must protect her — for Doug- 
las’ sake!” 

Louise was silent. Why should her own heart 
ache so? She told herself that it was in heaviness 
for Douglas and for Margy. 

“We must help them, Julia, — how can we do it?” 

[250] 


iSDf tbt (D^eak 

‘We will do it!” was the confident reply. ‘We 
will find a way, — the best and only way!” 

^ :)c ^ ^ ^ ^ 3)c 

As Marg-y turned back into her room, after they 
had gone, a sensation of isolation and loneliness 
crept over her, — something of the feeling that 
she used to have at school when she wanted to cry, 
without any reason. She tried to phone Robert, but 
found that the little instrument by her bed was out 
of order. She made her way downstairs to the 
library, and flashed on the lights. From the edge 
of a rug she stooped and picked up a half sheet of 
notepaper that had been torn in two and carelessly 
thrown toward the waste basket. She was about 
to crush it in her hand when her attention was at- 
tracted by the unusual writing, — a small, precise, 
vertical type, almost as regular as a printed page. 
She smoothed it out and looked at it. It was the 
lower half of a sheet, torn in the middle of a sen- 
tence. She read it o^^er slowly, scarcely heeding 
the words, as she studied the curiously formed let- 
ters : 

“bring someone willing and obliging but abso- 
lutely ignorant and unskilled; one fresh from 
the country and the cornfield, with no experi- 
ence whatever. This class must be taught. It’s 
the housekeeper’s duty to train and equip them 
for efficient service. Report at five, instead of 
four, as usual.” 

“Part of Maggie’s speech? No! I wonder ” 

[251] 


Cfte ^trcn0t& 

Margy spoke aloud as she read it more carefully 
a second time. Then she looked about the room 
for the missing upper portion, but could not find it. 

She picked up the receiver and talked to Robert, 
with the paper in her hand. Afterward Margy 
often wondered why she had held it! As she was 
hanging up the receiver she started, — held the paper 
just in front of a little drop light on the desk, and 
gazed through it curiously. The watermark was 
distinct, "‘Lubin Bond No. 4 ”; she turned it over 
and rubbed her fingers across it. She carried it 
upstairs with her and locked it in her desk, a ghost 
of a smile flickering over her wan face. 

‘T’ll give it to Maggie to-morrow. But I’ll 
double-dare her to bring a ‘cornfield’ nigger to my 
kitchen !” 


[252] 


iSDf tile Witnk 


CHAPTER VI 

A FEELER 

TX7 HEN they reached the broad, arched entrance 
^ ^ of the apartment house in which she lived, 
Julia detained Louise a moment on the pavement. 

“Fve been thinking as we were coming along, — 
that — perhaps it would be wise for me to see Rob- 
ert and have a little confidential chat with him. I 
am so much older; he could not possibly take of- 
fense. I dare say he is more amenable to reason 
and suggestion — than Margy. What do you think 
‘T think — we should leave no stone unturned,^’ 
Louise replied sadly. “You will have time before 
he goes to her; I will wait for you in your rooms.’^ 
Robert's face was a study in uncertain curiosity 
and astonishment as he opened his door to Julia 
and awkwardly bade her enter. She greeted him 
with a gracious smile, touched with a quality of 
shrewdness. 

“I see you are going out — but I will not keep 
you many minutes. There is something about which 
I feel constrained to speak to you — and — and yet — 
I scarcely know how to approach it." 

He threw her a quick look; Julia knew it to be a 


Cl)e %itren0t|) 

look of scrutiny, but she was accustomed to being’ 
scrutinized, and returned it unmoved. She had 
not had ti'me to prepare a careful indictment; she 
would speak cautiously. 

‘‘Can’t you help me ? Have you no hint of what 
I — I — wish to say?” 

“I am sorry. Miss Farwell — that I cannot.” 

Julia watched the color slowly recede from his 
brow, and an anxious, impatient, defiant challenge 
leap into his eyes. 

Almost wantonly she gloried in the sense of con- 
scious power his trembling voice and figure gave 
her. The Indian kills his victim slowly ; the joy of 
victory comes in torture, not in death. Ah, — she 
had been right; he was afraid — afraid! It was 
true, then — ^he was in love with Margy! 

The odds against her were many; chief among 
them was Margy’s purity. Even this she intended 
to use as a foil for her purpose. But one of the 
most potent factors in her favor was the man stand- 
ing before her, trembling at a possible accusation 
from her, — even a whispered word against Margy, 
the one being whom he loved with tender, ardent 
passion. She intended to use him to the utmost of 
her power; he would deny, — defy her with strong 
words, perhaps, — ^but she read him by clearer signs 
than words. Every line of his attitude proclaimed 
unrest — apprehension, — was it guilt as well? 

“Of what do I stand accused — by you?” 

He made no effort to assume a tone of banter; 
he faced her steadily. 

“I am not your accuser. I simply give you friend- 

[254] 


Df tlje mcalt 

ly warning,— that the world is finding food for 
gossip and for slander!” 

'‘Slander!” he exclaimed incredulously. 

"You cannot be entirely ignorant of what every- 
body knows !” 

"What everybody knows!” He made an impa- 
tient gesture; his eyes flashed. "Then — why the 
necessity of — repeating it?” 

"I feel it my duty to repeat it !” 

"You need not be offended, then — if I feel it 
my duty to resent or ignore it !” 

"You know — that you have been discussed?” 

A curious darkness spread over Robert’s face. 

"Indeed! I am flattered ” 

Julia was watching him keenly; her voice held 
a patient winning cadence. "I speak as your friend, 
— but, above everything, as the friend of Margy!” 

"Margy!” Robert started, and his jaws came 
together with a snap in a lightning flash of under- 
standing. It was very absurd. He betrayed first 
wrathful amazement, then sharp anger, which 
changed as quickly to relieved amusement. She 
watched the play of emotions; at first she found 
them rather big and menacing. But Julia was a 
brave woman, and if she shrank it was as a cat 
shrinks before springing at a mastiff. 

When his loud, hearty laugh rang out, however, 
she experienced one of the few surprising shocks 
of her life, for Julia was seldom caught off guard. 

He put his hand to his face and stroked his 
cheek. "Margy! Really!” he repeated. 

[ 255 ] 


C6e ^trengtj) 

She tnade a deprecating gesture, and stared at 
him. 

‘'Whom did you suppose I had in mind?’' 

Robert shook his head and laughed boyishly. “A 
woman’s mind is one thing no mortal man dare 
suppose anything about!” 

Julia had been right in her surmise; Robert had 
been afraid. For the fii'st time in his life he knew 
something of the terror of actual fear, and the re- 
acting joy of relief. He was afraid that probing 
minds had read a secret of his own heart. 

There was something about Miss Farwell that 
was almost uncanny to him. He had never felt at 
ease in her presence; just why he had not taken 
pains or thought to consider. It was, he supposed, 
because of the lofty height upon which she always 
seemed to stand, with her advanced ideas and her 
elegant remoteness of manner and person. 

As he watched her he noticed that age had begun 
to make marks on her face that was not another 
beauty as one would expect from the growth of 
high intellectual attainment, — but an end of beauty. 
The lines about her mouth had deepened, and the 
suggested hardness changed to a subtle cruelty, — a 
refined cruelty, not the instinct to kill, — ^but the kind 
that would give a glass of poison to an enemy with 
a smile and a caress. 

Wherein lay the secret of this woman’s life? he 
wondered. Was she a type to be content with phil- 
anthropic and literary endeavor, — merely drifting 
through life, — living on reflected joys of others? 
How close the narrow mouth would hold all the 

[256] 


©f tfje tDQcab 

secrets ever poured into the busy brain — back of 
those black eyes ! The thought of putting his wits 
against such a woman, — was not pleasing! 

Julia felt Robert scanning her. She saw his eyes 
grow ominously calm — threateningly cold, and she 
had some difficulty in returning his gaze with a 
proper amount of steadiness. She realized that 
Robert, for all his lack of subtlety, was proving no 
mean antagonist. She was accustomed to holding 
entire command both of herself and others; Robert 
Norwood did not lend himself to the process. 

Julia’s black eyes sparkled; she felt her anger 
rising; he baffled her! Never was it more neces- 
sary for her to keep all the threads of her influence 
in good working order. She must know the truth ! 

She leaned on the back of a chair, as if to in- 
trench herself behind it, — trying to appraise his 
strength, to probe his weakness. 

‘'Of course we know that your friendship for 
Margy is — most natural. She is very dear to me, — ' 
and I fear that she is not happy ” 

“Why?” 

Julia started ; was he playing with her, — ridicul- 
ing her? She shrugged her shoulders. 

“That question opens a wide field of complexi- 
ties ! But as her friends, we must help her. When 
a man like Alfred Mayer busies himself with a 
woman’s name, — even the wife of his best friend, — 
she is in imminent peril !” 

“And — you have discussed Margy — with him?” 
Robert asked curtly. 


[257] 


Clje Sitretigti) 

‘^He hinted to me that he might speak to you of 
these things, — has he done so ?’’ 

Robert did not stir; he clenched his hands hard. 
‘‘He has not! If he had — he would have measured 
his length on the ground — in less time than it takes 
me to tell you !” 

Julia’s eyes flashed a blaze of scorn. “Oh, — I 
see — you cannot flght me — can you?” 

His eyes met hers with the response of steel 
clashing steel. “Not with my fists — no !” 

Did his manner or words hold a hint of a threat 
or challenge? Julia smiled, with lifted eyebrows. 

“Which means — that you resent my coming to 
you thus?” 

“It might be taken to imply something of that 
sort !” 

Julia’s cheeks flushed a passionate red; her eyes 
blazed above them. She suddenly became a woman 
of the wilderness, moved by certain primitive forces 
in the blood. The flames of hatred shot up within 
her. Her voice was low and tense. 

. “I am not accustomed to insult, — neither am I a 
forgiving person I” 

He was silent ; native courtesy prompted a quick 
apology, but he bit his lip and turned away, picking 
up his hat and cane and gloves that he had placed 
on a table when she entered. He divined rather 
than saw the shadow of evil impulses working in 
her face. 

She felt herself dismissed. As the rustle of her 
silken skirts died away down the corridor, Robert 

[258] 


I 


ti)e mtak 

Norwood knew that he had made an enemy, — one 
who, indeed, would never forgive or forget 

What did it mean? Was it really true that clat- 
tering tongues were wagging about Margy and him- 
self? It seemed scarcely credible! 

But — what were they saying that could be of such 
paramount importance that a woman of Miss Far- 
well’s poise should so far over-reach her own good 
taste in evident determination to exploit his affairs, 
— or, if not his — then Margy’s, — but — why either? 

He laughed as he recalled an incident connected 
with Preston’s antagonism toward Julia. At Christ- 
mas Julia had given him a costly little electric en- 
gine. The day after the engine was missing. Margy 
searched the house for it, and questioned Preston 
closely, but all she could get out of him was the 
noncommittal reply: ‘T lo’t it!” He had noticed, 
with amusement, the child’s indifference toward 
looking for it. Several days later he was teasing 
the little fellow, and playfully accused him of 
knowing where the toy was, when Preston sud- 
denly burst into tears, and confessed to Margy that 
he had buried the engine in the back yard, and 
begged her to let it stay there. Margy had been 
much troubled about it, for she had never under- 
stood Preston’s attitude toward Julia. She had 
made him dig it up, — but in a day or two it was 
‘^lo’t” again, and the subject dropped. 

Well! Well! He could understand something 
of Preston’s feelings ! He would treat Julia’s warn- 
ing as Preston treated her gift, — bury it deep out 
of mind. Only — his conscience would not trouble 

[259] 


Cfie 

hftn, as Preston’s had, — for surely it was the only 
way it deserved to be treated. 

Nevertheless, as he swung himself along through 
the damp, cold air, — he could not deny a feeling of 
apprehension. It was apparent that Julia, for some 
reason unknown to him, had determined to force 
him to show his hand, — or to cross swords with her. 
He had chosen the latter, — and he knew that the 
crossing marked an epoch. 


2DI the JOeak 


CHAPTER VII 

IN THE SHADOW OF A FOG 

13 OBERT was waiting for Margyat the foot of 
the staircase. She stated her errand to him 
bluntly; he listened in unaffected sympathy and 
amusement, as she finished the recital of the day’s 
confusion, and her impelling need of a cook, by stat- 
ing that Douglas had gone, Julia and Louise had an 
engagement, — so she had called on him — as there 
was nothing else to do. 

‘T cannot live on — like this! I’ve got to bring 
order into things — somehow ! I must hunt for this 
Lucy Alston!” she said, in a sort of questioning 
entreaty. 

‘T would advise you — not to, Margy,” he replied 
kindly; ‘Tut I see there’s unflinching purpose in 
that gray eye of yours. It will be a hunt — a wild 
goose chase; I doubt if we’ll be able to find her.” 

Margy was pale, and her look to Robert was 
very sad. This quiet stillness of attitude he knew 
to be with her as definite an expression of distress 
as a cry of pain from another woman. In spite of 
her shyness, there was a dignity in her manner that 
challenged opposition, and Robert saw it. 

[261] 


Cfie @)trengtij 

‘‘You did exactly right to send for me, little girl. 
Tm in the mood for just such adventure! There’s 
a biting zest in the air outside, — ^but aren’t you very 
tired?” he asked gently. 

Margy made a doleful grimace. “No — not 

very!” she replied carelessly. 

As they opened the outside door a gust of chill 
air rushed upon them. An east wind had sprung 
up, and a heavy fog had set in. Objects a hundred 
yards away were completely enveloped; nothing 
could be seen across the street. 

In Robert’s face a sense of the humor of the sit- 
uation and a natural love for adventure fought with 
a consciousness of its possible imprudence. 

To reach Hardy Street it was necessary to cut 
through several short, narrow streets in the Negro 
section of the city. They passed swiftly along 
the rough pavements. Although the cotnditions 
were familiar to Margy, she felt a sudden disgust; 
the poor, monotonous houses, teeming with human 
lives, — the dirty porches and steps, — the lean dogs 
and sickly cats prowling in refuse heaps, — the smell 
of decaying oyster shells, — the pungent odor of 
cooking cabbage, — the slime, — the filth 

Bah! She lifted her skirts higher, and quick- 
ened her step. The moist air had a chill like the 
breath^ of old winter. Through the confusion of 
fog and snowflakes they turned sharply into a more 
crowded thoroughfare, and hurried on. For the 
time they were part of a laughing, chattering, push- 
ing crowd. Carriage after carriage whirled by; 

[262] 


©e tbt mtak 

form after form scurried shadow-like into view and 
out again. 

At length a wet, clinging blanket settled over 
them. Fog horns on the vessels in the little har- 
bor belched forth their hoarse, incessant warnings. 
The weird noises and uncanny gray lights filled 
Margy with a feeling of strange terror. Impul- 
sively she caught Robert’s arm and held closely to 
him. The wind blew the long ends of her heavy 
veil across her face ; she closed her eyes, submitting 
herself completely to Robert’s leading. 

He maintained a lively chatter all the time, and 
Margy listened. Gradually a sense of security and 
intimacy stole over her. She glanced at his fine 
significant face turned upward, — his tall, handsome 
body breasting the storm with easy strength and 
half sheltering her. Across Margy’s face there 
passed the swiftest, subtlest flash of tenderness and 
pride! How dear he was to her! 

At length they turned sharply and walked several 
blocks in silence. 

“We’ll finish up this job on short order. What’s 
the woman’s name? Lucy Alston, — ah ” 

He attempted to read the numbers along the 
straggling line of poor houses. Few had numbers 
at all, and only dim lights shone here and there 
through drab, dingy blinds. 

“We’ll have to ask the number.” 

They stopped before a house that stood in black- 
est shadow in the center of the block, but whose 
door opened directly on the pavement. In the 
howling darkness Robert searched for a bell, but 


CJje ©ttcngtft 

could not find one, and finally knocked loudly; the 
heavy, thick air seemed to beat the sound back 
upon them. The door was opened by a slim mu- 
latto woman holding an iron in her hand. From 
the light of a dingy lamp she looked very tired and 
worn. 

'‘Can you tell us where number forty-three is?” 
Margy asked. 

"They ain’ no numbers, is there?” the woman 
answered dully, without interest. 

"Does a Lucy Alston live here?” inquired Robert. 

The woman slowly shook her head. "I ain’ never 
heard tell o’ no Lucy Alston.” 

Margy had an inspiration. "Who ‘lives up- 
stairs?” she asked. 

"I dunno,” was the indifferent reply, as she made 
a movement to close the door. 

"May I go up and inquire?” Robert asked po- 
litely. 

There was a pause. " ’Tain’t no woman up there. 
Jest a passel o’ sailors.” 

Through the door beyond the smoking lamp 
Margy saw an ironing board balanced between a 
barrel top and table, and piles of white clothes 
spread on chairs. Presently there was a low moan 
from within the room, followed by a long racking 
cough. 

"Is someone — sick? Are you ironing at night?” 
Margy asked kindly, in one breath. 

The woman eyed her a moment, — the dull, list- 
less look on her face holding abject hopelessness. 
[264] 


2Df tfie mt^U 

irons — all de time. It’s my mother, — she’s a- 
dyin’.” 

‘‘Dying!” gasped Margy. 

Robert held Margy back, and slipped quickly 
into the room. The next instant he returned, took 
her by the arm, and led her away. 

“Oh, Robert! The poor woman! Was her 
mother — in there?” 

“She was, — and a gruesome sight!” Robert 
spoke compassionately. “The foot of her bed was 
covered with white people’s laundry. Few house- 
keepers in Gray don know where they send their 
clothes to be washed. The woman is dying of tu- 
berculosis; they live, eat, sleep, work in that room, 
— and carry millions of germs out on every gar- 
ment! Miss Farwell has established a free clinic 
for such people, hasn’t she? Help is needed, — « 
Heaven knows!” 

Margy shuddered. “Oh ! I saw children’s 
clothes ! Fine, dainty baby clothes, — how hor- 
rible!” 

Robert stopped short. “It’s no use for us to look 
further; we are wasting time. We can never find 
her. Negroes won’t tell where anyone lives, — not 
in this place; they’re afraid you’re after them for 
something. No white person need ever look for 
one of theim. If you want Lucy Alston, — ^you’ll 
have to send Maggie for her!” 

“Oh, I wish we could find her!” sighed Margy 
dolefully. “There, — Robert — there’s a number, — 
look— -it’s fifty-four,— so — forty-three is on the 
other side.” 


Cfte ^treit0t6 

They crossed; from the light of a street lamp 
Robert presently caught a glimpse of a flaring red 
and gold sign beside a door. Hoping to gain from 
it some hint of information, — possibly a notary 
public or a justice of the peace, Robert stepped 
upon the low, narrow porch and struck a match, 
flashing it upon the sign. “Hair Straightened” — ^he 
read aloud ; Margy laughed. Robert stumbled down 
the single step, the rotting plank splintering under 
his foot. 

“Inquire next door,” suggested Margy. 

“All right ! Here goes !” 

He rapped loudly and waited, — then rapped 
again. The door creaked, and a drunken woman, 
with bony hands clutching a torn calico wrapper 
across her breast, lurched out. Her blotched eyes 
leered at them and grinned. 

“Can you tell me ” Margy began. 

Robert pulled her away; she turned impatiently 
toward him. “Let me ask her, Robert. We’ll 
never find the place !” 

“Let that creature alone !” he cried roughly. “I’ve 
had enough of this, — come on, hurry!” 

At the next corner they ran directly against a 
man standing on the edge of the sidewalk, — heav- 
ily muffled in furs, with hat drawn low over his 
eyes; he seemed almost part of the mist itself. 
Without turning, Robert hurried on, almost drag- 
ging Margy over the slippery pavement. 

“That was Alfred Mayer, Robert, — and you al- 
most knocked him down !” she exclaimed. 

[266] 


f>f tbe mtak 

Robert halted. “Alfred Mayer— what in thun- 
der — ^ 

Suddenly out of the dense fog that obscured him 

Mayer loomed up beside them. “Beg pardon 

will you kindly give me a match — I — I ” 

He nervously fingered the leather case that Rob- 
ert handed him, struck a match with a quick, deft 
movement, and swung its light directly in their 
faces. 

‘'Oh, — It's you — Norwood, and — Mrs. Lloyd! 
Deuced fog — isn’t it? I — I thought your figures 
seemed familiar ” 

He was sober enough now, thought Robert; be- 
fore he had time to make an answer, Mayer was 
lost to thepi. 

“Robert — Robert, I wish you wouldn’t act so 
crazy, — you hurt my arm!” 

The incident had disturbed Robert; he was puz- 
zled and alarmed, without definite reason. The 
blood beat against his ears as he looked at Margy, 
— and remembered Julia’s visit, — its purport and 
significance. In his excitement, at the moment, the 
picture she made produced an indefinable impres- 
sion on him; her closely fitting black dress, her 
strangely expressive face, — the fur toque set jaun- 
tily among waving ringlets, — her graceful slender- 
ness, — the unconscious dignity of her movements. 
His heart yearned toward her. It was the impres- 
sion of being on the edge of something; he seemed 
to see her poised on the brink of a precipice, with 
a slender, high-bred foot reaching forth, uncon- 
scious of danger. 


Cfte ^txtnqtb 

He put her arm through his and spoke tenderly: 

‘Torgive me, Margy, — let's go home." 

She drew herself away and stood still. 

‘^Horne? No, indeed, Robert! Don't look so 
wild, — I'm almost afraid of you!" She caught his 
arm again and started off. ‘‘Let's make a lark of 
it! I feel better! To-morrow will have to take 
care of itself ; there are worse things in the world, 
— than having no cook! Let's save our emotions 
for them. To indulge in the horrors now, — will 
do no good ! Cheer up ! We'll go to the Rebeccah 
League, — I'm wild to hear Maggie speak! Let's 
have a good time, — what's the use, — come on !” 


[268] 


S>t tbt Wit^k 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE MASS MEETING 

TV/F ARGY was bright and gay. And yet, — as they 
hurried along in silence toward the hall where 
the Rebeccah League was holding its meeting, she 
fought off a thousand misgivings. Complicated 
situations had never appealed to her; it was to es- 
cape from them that she had been playing a role 
that was neither attractive nor agreeable to her. 

She longed now to rush to Douglas, no matter 
where he was or what he was doing, and claim the 
protection and love that her heart ached for. A 
remembrance of their parting, — of his careless un- 
concern, his ridicule, — arrested the impulse, and 
produced a determined rebound! Stung with a 
sense of injustice, she pitted her anger against any 
regard for consequences. For an instant her eyes 
filled with tears, as a vision of the nursery flashed 
before her. It was hard to miss for one night the 
cuddling of little arms around her neck and the 
feel of a little sleepy head on her shoulder. 

A few yards before the entrance a crowd of Ne- 
gro urchins gathered at their heels. Margy stopped 
irresolutely, and looked around, opened a little 

[269] 


Cfte ^trengtl) 

silver purse that hiing from her waist, — and threw 
a handful of pennies among them. They swooped 
upon them, fighting and shrieking! She looked 
at them, her lips parted in a half smile. 

“What a coward you are!” Robert accused. 

“Coward? It was philanthropy!” she retorted. 

“Cowardice, Margy, — cowardice! You can never 
resist the temptation of giving yourself the luxury 
of being liked! It is worthy of a better object, 
dear.” 

Margy laughed a low chuckle. 

“I had to do something to liven things up a bit! 
We are about as cheerful — as a churchyard! Do 
you suppose we can get in there?” pointing toward 
the hall. 

Robert stood still. 

“Don’t try it ! It isn’t worth it, — let’s go home !” 
gloomily. 

“There are policemen. Come on, Robert. We’ll 
get a seat near the door.” 

The crowd fell away as they approached. After 
some delay, at their request, they were given seats 
on the aisle, two rows from the rear. The room 
was packed; Robert roughly estimated with about 
two thousand Negroes. Policemen were sta- 
tioned, two inside each door, and several on the 
outside. On the whole, it seemed an orderly crowd. 
On a platform a half dozen chairs were arranged in 
a semicircle; the president’s chair beside a small 
table, on which stood a green glass vase holding an 
enormous bunch of artificial flowers, — formed the 
center. 

[270] 


SS)t tbt MJeab 

Margy’s quick, bright eyes took in every detail. 

“Aren't you glad we came, Robert? I'll enjoy 
it, — won't you?" 

“Enjoy — what?" he snapped. 

“Enjoy hearing Maggie speak! And the music, 
— and everything." 

Robert's lip curled. 

“Maggie will enjoy it — if she is to be the star 
performer! She wouldn't mind being hung, — if 
the hanging was in public!" 

“I never saw anything like this before!" said 
Margy. “It's a wonder they let us in! What's 
that?" 

A suppressed murmur passed over the audience, 
in a wave of expectancy. A door at the side of 
the platform opened, and a procession of dignitaries 
entered. They took their places amid wild ap- 
plause; after the excitement had subsided, Margy 
saw Maggie standing in the center. 

Margy suddenly sat erect, — looking at Maggie, 
her eyes held by an amazing vision, — a chill from 
it crept over her. 

“Robert — Robert! Look — look!" she gasped. 

“What is it?" he asked, leaning breathlessly to- 
ward her. 

“Don't you — seef* 

Maggie was presiding with an imperial atti- 
tude of cheap drama, — arrayed in Julia's new gray 
satin dress, a masterpiece from a master artist, — 
a ‘‘pipe dream" of the dressmaker's craft! Around 
her dusky throat Margy saw her own diamond 
necklace sparkle in the lamplight! From the top 

[271] 


CtJe ^tttnstb 

of an elaborate coiffure, which Margy rightfully 
averred was a wig, there waved long, flowing white 
aigrettes, from Julia’s sable fur toque! A pair of 
heavy gold bracelets Margy recognized as belong- 
ing to Louise dangled from her gloved wrists I 

'‘I see — Maggie rigged out like an opera singer, 
— if that’s what you mean!” 

“It’s Julia’s dress, Robert! Julia’s new pearl- 
gray satin!” 

Robert smothered an involuntary explosion, — 
and then he smiled, a long, slow, — broad smile, 
holding his chin cooped in his hands. 

“Robert!” Margy whispered, “Julia will — kill 
her if she finds it out! We must warn her! Julia 
and Louise will be here presently! I must tell 
Maggie to — run!” 

Margy started to get up ; Robert pulled her down 
in the seat. 

“You do — no such thing! Stay where you are, 
and keep still! Hush — I want to hear what she’s 
saying!” 

They were too far away to see the expression 
of the speaker’s face, but her high-pitchi voice 
clearly reached them in every affectd intonation. 
They had missed the introductory sentences, but 
soon caught and followed the thread of the dis- 
course. 

And Robert’s smile broadened as he listened. 

“The time is not far distant when every home 
in Graydon will be under our control! Never lose 
sight of the fact that we are a necessity to them — 

[272] 


flDf tfte Olealt 

and necessities must be purchased — at any price! 

“We have banded ourselves together into this 
Rebeccah League for the protection of our rights! 
It is a regularly organized labor union; our com- 
mittees work faithfully. The vigilance committee 
deserves special mention. They meet incoming 
trains and boats, and interest all newcomers in the 
league before they are caught up — helpless — in the 
white net ! 

“What we have suffered in the past is too well 
known to relate! But a new day has dawned for 
us! The housekeepers of Graydon must recognize 
our power and submit to it, — or the fine, dainty 
ladies, with their soft hands and white skins, — will 
be driven into the kitchen and the wash tub! (Ap- 
plause. ) 

< “They want us to be a combination cook, laun- 
dress, waitress and chambermaid, — while they 
amuse themselves with one diversion after another, 
until finally they are forced to take a Test cure* 
from the ‘diversions.* But I will not consume val- 
uable time along this line; by our next meeting I 
will be better qualified to make plain assertions 
(with a broad, sweeping smile). 

“It is not my purpose before this vast assem- 
blage to discuss the plans of our own league, — but 
to take a wider outlook into the future destiny of 
! our people! This league is to form the first link 
in a mighty chain that will encircle our fair South- 
land from zone to zone! I am now in correspond- 
ence with several of our larger cities, and am only 
waiting for the psychological moment to strike the 


Cfte %itren0t6 

jRrst blow! In union, — there is strength!’' (Wild 
cheers and clapping.) 

Robert laughed aloud. Under the cover of deaf- 
ening applause he whispered: “The psychological 
moment of her life will be — when Julia sees her 
in that dress!” 

“We all contributed to the spoils of the con- 
queror!” chuckled Margy. 

“Sh — I don’t want to lose a word I” 

“The problems we face here in Graydon are but 
a phase of the problems of the entire Southland! 
The problem of the twentieth century, — is the 
color line! 

“It is an old idea that the whites would eventu- 
ally displace the entire colored races, and possess 
all lands; the belief that white men are made of 
better clay, and that they alone are entitled to rule ! 

“Since seven hundred and thirty-two, when 
Charles Martel drove back the Saracens at Tours, 
the white races have held the reins of civilization. 
But now — for the first time in a thousand years, a 
white nation measured arm with a colored nation, 
— and was found wanting! (Applause.) The 
Russo-Japanese war has marked an epoch! The 
magic of the word ‘white’ has been broken! The 
awakening of the colored races of the world is cer- 
tain! Shall this awakening be in accordance with 
the ideals of white civilization — or — in spite of it? 
( Suppressed murmurings. ) 

“We cannot line ourselves up on the side of law 
and order, — for law is white man’s tryanny, and 
means injustice and cruelty to us! They have 

[274] 


SDf tfie mtak 

forced us to the side of violence and revolution! 
We beg for justice and what is the answer? A 
shrug of the shoulders — and a laugh! 

'^Monstrous things are done in the name of law! 
The high federal court has just ended its session 
in Graydon. Sentei/ce was suspended in the cases 
of two white men,— )ne a clerk of a national bank 
for embezzling thousands of dollars, — and he goes 
free ! The other was a post office clerk, for embez- 
zling thousands of dollars, — and he walked out, a 
free man! A Negro was sentenced to the federal 
prison in Atlanta for a term of three years for 
stealing a dozen chickens off of government prop- 
erty at the navy yard! 

‘'This is not inflammatory jargon, — it is a state- 
ment of facts, — a — cruel travesty of justice, — shall 
we submit to it?^' (Applause, yells of “No, never!”)’ 

“We’ll have to get out of here, Margy — or they’ll 
tear us limb from limb,” said Robert. 

Margy’s quick sense of humor was stirred; she 
realized that she was taking protective assurance 
from the near presence of two blue-coated officers 
of the law ! 

“Law,” the speaker continued, “it is no protec- 
tion to us! A long, half-inch rope over the limb of 
a tree, — a slow, gurgling strangle, — and there’s 
one less Negro in the world ! What matter, — who 
cares? It may be the wrong man — it has often 
been, — but it only provokes a fiendish laugh! 

“Oswald G. Villard, one of our gifted leaders, 
has said: The time is ripe for serving notice on 
the country that efforts to degrade the Negro to a 

[275] 


Cije ©trengti) 

servile position, — to create that impossible thing, a 
republic, with millions of persons, taxed out, not 
represented, — shall be fought from now on! Leave 
the murdering in cold blood to the race that proudly 
calls itself, — the superior!’ (Loud applause.) 

“Carl Schurz has said: ‘The Negro must be re- 
duced to a permanent condition of serfdom, — a 
mere plantation hand, alongside the mule, — or he 
must be recognized as a free American citizen!’ 
(Wild applause.) I ask you which shall it be? 

“Are there not brave men among us who can 
show the same courage and daring that the hon- 
ored President of the United States once showed — • 
when he flew into the face of caste feeling of sev- 
enteen million Southern white men, in giving social 
recognition to one of our greatest leaders! 

“In all lands there are the poor and down-trod- 
den! After all, we have much to be thankful for! 
The old aristocracy among us is passing away, — 
and is not being replaced. The gulf between the 
races is being bridged — by both, Hope beckons us 
on, — with a clarion call to victory ! 

“I was much touched in reading, the other day, 
of a country in Switzerland where the lower class 
are so poor that all they can get to eat is a certain 
large worm that they find in the rocky beds of many 
streams that flow through the mountains. In 
summer they prepare and eat this worm — while 
fresh; but they dry them and crush them up into 
a fine powder to use during the winter months. It 
forms their only diet ! It was so pathetic to me ! I 
bowed my head on my desk, — and wept aloud! I 

[276] 


flDf the mtak 

understood, as never before, — what the 'Diet of 
Worms’ meant! 

“Duty stands before us with flaming sword! If 
we cannot get justice, — if we cannot live in peace 
with equal rights, — then it must be by might of fire 
and sword, — by famine and revolution, a life for 
a life, — and the strongest must prevail! I ask you 
— which shall it be? 

“They hold us down in servile drudgery, — they 
madden our men by injustice and cruelty! How? 
By prowling mobs of armed assassins! We shud- 
der and grow pale at the remembrance of the events 
that culminated in a carnival of unspeakable horror 
in Atlanta on September twenty-second, nineteen 
hundred and six! 

“But — I declare to you that the time is fast ap- 
proaching when the lid of the volcano will be lifted! 
We will soon light a fire and compel them to put it 
out — or be consumed by it! Which shall it be? 
Shall we fold our hands and bow our heads under 
the galling yoke! No — a thousand times — no! 

“The new, bustling, forward civilization will 
either lift us up on a great tidal wave, — or crush 
us down beneath its onslaught! It rests with you 
to say — which it shall be !” 

Maggie bowed and took her seat amid wildest 
applause. As it finally subsided, she arose to make 
some announcements. 

Margy had been as interested as Robert, and for 
the time had forgotten the imminent peril that 
threatened Maggie and her own responsibility con- 
cerning it. 


C6e @itten0t6 

‘‘Robert — listen!’' she said. “Maggie only bor- 
rowed those things for this occasion. Julia doesn’t 
know that her dress has been sent home, and she 
won’t know it until to-morrow. Poor Maggie! 
She can’t help it! Robert, — you and I understand, 
— we know that they all do such things when they 
get half a chance! But — Julia! Julia will — mur- 
der her! You know how particular Julia is — about 
everything!” 

“Sit quiet, Margy! Let her alone! You’ll do 
nothing!” he commanded. 

“Robert, — I will! I’ve got to! Give me paper 
and pencil! Hurry — please — hurry, Robert!” 

Margy jerked off her glove and wrote: 

“I must speak to you — one moment. Come to 
side door. — Mrs. Lloyd.” 

Against Robert’s protest she sent the note to the 
platform. They waited long enough to see Maggie’s 
face turn ashen, — as she muttered an incoherent 
excuse about feeling suddenly faint and disap- 
peared. 

Robert and Margy met her at the side entrance. 
Margy stepped up close to her. 

“Julia will be here in a minute, Maggie. Hurry 
— go home — can’t you?” 

Maggie clutched her arm, staggering against the 
door. 

“Where ’bouts is she now?” she gasped. 

“I don’t know — she hasn’t seen you yet. Hurry 
away from here !” 


SDf tbt meafe 

But Maggie did not move; she was trembling in 
terror and fear. 

“He’p me — Mis’ Ma’gy — fo’ de Lawd’s sake — 
he’p me!” she pleaded, lapsing into the native 
brogue of Clam Creek. 

“Get away — go home at once — it will be all 
right!” Margy assured. 

“Go wid me — please go wid me! I feel so sick!” 
she whined. 

Robert stepped forward and shook her roughly. 

“Do as Margy tells you, Maggie! She can’t go 
with you! She’s going with me to the Jefferson! 
Now — hurry, if you know what’s good for you!” 

By this time Maggie had recovered herself, and, 
gathering her skirts over her arm, she flew across 
the little anteroom and out of the back door. 

Robert and Margy walked in composed silence 
down the narrow alleyway to the pavement. At 
the entrance they made inquiry of the policeman 
about Julia. They learned that two ladies had al- 
ready come and gone. Robert looked at his watch ; 
it was then ten-thirty. 

“Oh, — we’ve missed them, — haven’t we?” said 
Margy in dismay. Robert made no answer, — but, 
once out of sight and hearing, he broke into light- 
hearted laughter. 

Robert’s mood had veered; he was now as gay 
and irresponsible as Margy. All torturing visions 
vanished; the lines of his full-lipped mouth quiv- 
ered with boyish pleasure. 

No phase of fantastic humor that the situation 
held escaped them! Passers-by turned and looked 

[279] 


C6e 

at them; they appeared a happy, careless pair of 
young lovers — joking, chatting, laughing! 

*‘We did make a lark of it, after all, — didn’t 
we?” said Margy. *'But — it’s too bad about Julia 
and Louise, isn’t it? Where do you suppose they 
went ?” 

‘‘Home — probably,” he replied. “After our emo- 
tional gymnastics to-night, we are going to finish 
up the evening with supper at the Jefferson.” 

“Oh — that will be nice! Only — my suit ” 

with a disapproving glance at the somber black, in 
which her mood of the early evening had caused 
her to clothe herself. The perfectly gowned little 
figure, however, cried* gentility in every line a^d 
fold. 

“You’re all right!” he assured. 

They came suddenly into the full light of a flor- 
ist’s window. Margy halted. 

“Wait a moment! I’ll go in here and get a 
bunch of violets.” 

Robert followed leisurely, and watched her as 
she arranged the violets at her slim waist. 

“A five-dollar bunch of violets will lend a festive 
air to any dress, — won’t it? Now — I feel — almost 
fit!” settling her hat on straight and pushing back 
the ringlets from her forehead. 

“Let’s find a comer, Robert,” she whispered, as 
they entered the dining room. 

Being assured by the obliging ushers at the door 
of the Rebeccah League that no white lady or gen- 
tleman was in the hall, Julia and Louise were 
turning away, when they overheard excited whis- 

[280] 


mt tbt C^eak 

pers to the effect that the president had been taken 
very ill and had gone home. 

“That’s Maggie,” exclaimed Julia; “of course it 
is ! We’ll walk by there — it’s only a block or two 
out of our way.” 

Receiving no answer to repeated rappings on 
the door of the West Side Inn, Julia cautiously 
tried the knob, and, to her surprise, it turned and 
the door opened. A dim kerosene lamp with a 
purple flower shade was burning among the paper 
palms. Julia walked to the foot of the staircase 
and gazed upward into dense obscurity. 

“Maggie!” she called. 

She heard a door open above and a long streak 
of light pierced the blackness. 

“That you, — Miss Julia?” came a faint, feeble 
voice. 

In the dim light Julia saw Maggie’s figure muf- 
fled in a quilt from head to foot, leaning against 
the door facing. 

“What is the matter?” Julia inquired briskly. 
“Are you ill? Is there anything we can do for 

Reassured by her tone, Maggie replied in a more 
natural voice: 

“I just had a — chill, I think. The room was 
very close, — and the nervous strain ” 

“Have you seen Mrs. Lloyd?” Julia interrupted 
sharply. 

“Yes-um. She came back to inquire how I was.” 

“She was there — then?” 


Cfie 

‘‘For a while, yes-um. Then she and Mr. Robert 
went to the Jefferson.” 

“Ah!” 

Julia turned abruptly. “I hope you will be better 
to-morrow.” 

“Yes-um.” 

“We’ll find them at the Jefferson,” Julia stated 
shortly, as she and Louise stood outside on the 
pavement. 

“It’s strange they didn’t wait for us, isn’t it?” 
Louise replied. “It’s hardly worth while to go by 
there. They’re home, by now.” 

They walked on in silence. At length Julia 
spoke hesitatingly: “N-no, — it is scarcely worth 
while I” 

* JK * * * 

While Robert and Margy were enjoying their 
late supper, below them, down in the rathskeller, 
Alfred Mayer and Douglas glared at each other 
across the polished table. 

“Mayer — you’re half drunk again!” Douglas ac- 
cused. “Now this sort of thing’s got to stop! I’ve 
been wanting to say something for some time, but 
hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.” 

Mayer eyed him good-naturedly. “I — I’m going 
to stop, — old partner. I’m going to stop, — to — to- 
morrow! I ain’ as drunk — as you think! Good 
Lord, — I’ve put in a night of it! I’ve been looking 
for you — for — three hours !” 

“Looking for me! What for?” 

“Now — now — don’t get in a hurry! I ca — can’t 
hurry! And you’re — my partner, — old boy — you’ve 

[282] 


fDt tfte meak 

been my partner — all my life! And — I love you — 
Douglas — I love you — like a brother — or — or 

“Oh — bosh! Clear your mind of sentimental 
vapors ! Tell me — what you want with me ! What’s 
up?” Douglas interrupted, with chafing impatience. 

Mayer fumbled with his watch chain, his heavy 
eyes shifting around the room. Douglas made a 
move as if to get up. 

“Sit down!” Mayer tugged at his sleeves in- 
sistently, and there was something in his tone that 
caused Douglas to obey him. “I’ve got to tell you 
something!” 

“I have no time or patience to listen to you, 
Mayer. Sober up — and stop making a fool of 
yourself !” 

“I’ve got to talk to you — Douglas — hang it — 
I’ve got it to do!” 

Douglas waited. 

“I’ve been looking for you ! I even went to that 
— damn fool nigger meeting — I’ve been looking for 


“Cut that out!” Douglas demanded. 

Mayer sat stolid. “I’ve got to tell you — Douglas 
— we’ve been partners too long ” 

Douglas’ patience broke all bounds. “Here — 
say what you want to say! I’m going home!” 

“Wait — wait — let me ask you a question.” He 
leaned over close to Douglas, and lowered his voice : 
“Where was Mrs. Lloyd, — to-night?” 

“She went to the hop at the navy yard,” was the 
quick answer. 

“No— -she didn’t !” 

[283] 


Cfte Sitrengtfj 

‘‘She intended to go, — I know, with Robert. It 
may be that her plans changed,” Douglas replied 
carelessly. 

“She was — with Robert. But — ^not at — the navy 
yard !” 

Suddenly Douglas rested both elbows on the ta- 
ble and bent forward low upon them. He fixed a 
steady eye on Alfred Mayer, — with a terrible calm- 
ness that neither trembled nor grew pale. Then — 
he sat erect, roused at last to tense, suppressed pas- 
sion, as a tiger ready to spring. 

“What — what the devil — are you talking about?” 


[284] 


2Df tfie mtnk 


CHAPTER IX 
A CONFESSION 

' I ^HE tingle of the little telephone bell by her bed- 
“*■ side woke Margy. She turned her head and 
mechanically reached forth her hand for the re- 
ceiver. As she did so her eyes fell on Douglas' 
bed, and she sat upright with a start. The bed 
was empty; spread and crisp pillow lay in the 
smooth lines that Maggie’s careful hands had fold- 
ed. Margy passed her hand across her forehead. 
The room was filled with the light of early winter 
morning. She strained her eyes- toward the little 
brass clock on the mantel; it pointed to seven- 
thirty. 

The phone rang again insistently. She jerked 
down the receiver, — every faculty awake and alert. 

‘‘Hello! Oh, — it’s you, Douglas! What — what 
— you’re in the library! For pity’s sake — why — 
come on — what? Oh, — oh, — well — -just as you 
please !” 

As she replaced the receiver two bright spots 
burned on her cheeks. The room was warm, but 
Margy snuggled down for one last moment under 
the satin coverlet. No sound came to her from 

[285] 


Cfje 

any portion of the house; the babies were asleep 
yet, probably — or Mammy had carried them down- 
stairs. 

How queer, Douglas’ command, that she should 
come down there to him, — at once! 

The idea of revolt, of refusing to go, appealed 
to her first anger strongly. Margy had never been 
accustomed to receiving orders, or obeying them. 

But — she must hold herself in check. She had 
been too tired to sleep soundly ; she had had 
wretched dreams! She had dreamed of Glen Ha- 
ven, — but not with the joy and beauty in which 
her thoughts had been accustomed to hover about 
the place. She had dreamed of the little bluebird 
she had held in her hand, — that first day, — and her 
heart had been torn afresh over the broken wing. 

The next instant Margy’s mind went back to the 
lonely graves within the iron fence, among the ce- 
dars, — busy with memories of her wistful child- 
hood. 

She idly noticed the frost on the window panes 
of her room, and wondered at the weird fantastic 
shapes its pure whiteness formed on the glass, and 
how dark and deep the shadows cast in places be- 
tween them. How strange, she thought, that any 
substance so white and pure could cause so black a 
shadow ! 

The morning found her confused, oppressed! 
But she resolutely threw it off as lightly as the 
down coverlet, and leisurely composed herself to 
the task of a careful morning toilet. She had felt 
a portend of trouble in Douglas’ voice, but she must 

[286] 


£[)f tfie 

be prepared to hold her own, — to give battle at 
every point! How glad she was that she had ac- 
quired this self-command! Experience had taught 
her ’that masculine tenderness did not respond to 
tears, as was generally supposed. She would meet 
its strength now with a similar one of her own! 
This, Margy knew, was the result of Julia's train- 
ing, — and she was grateful in her heart. 

All the time she was dressing her mind was 
filled with speculation. At a second impatient tingle 
of the phone bell she started nervously, — then 
smiled, and leisurely crossed the room toward it. 

''Well! — hurry! — 'come at once!’ 'Just as I 
am !’ 'Won’t wait’ — oh, — yes, you will ! All right 
— I’ll be down presently!” 

She arrayed herself in a becoming neglige, keen- 
ly alive to the beauty of the soft silky stuff,— the 
daintiness of the pinks and blues, — the blending of 
grays and cream, and made an effort to smooth out 
the lines of nervous fatigue from her face. At 
heart she felt like a conqueror, ready to enjoy her 
triumph or meet fresh conflict! By the time she 
reached the library these inner fires, shining through 
her eyes, lighted up her face with fresh exhilara- 
tion of purpose and daring. She was forever done 
with the meekness of the suppliant! 

"You wish to speak to me?” she greeted brightly 
from the doorway. 

He stared at her in amazement. Was this bra- 
vado, — or Her clear eyes gave no hint of a 

troubled conscience. He felt checked. Her face 

[287] 


Cfte 

betrayed no sign of surprise or interest at his even- 
ing clothes and dishevelled hair. 

‘'You — ask me that — this morning?” he finally 
spoke thickly. 

“Is it an extraordinary question?” she replied 
carelessly. 

“Not as extraordinary as the circumstances be- 
hind — that caused it!” 

“You speak in riddles.” She advanced into the 
room and sank gracefully into a deep-cushioned 
chair, her lace draperies falling in little flutters 
about her face, — the toe of a dainty slipper, encas- 
ing a trim ankle in fine silken stockings, peeping 
out alluringly from under them. 

“And you — fence with words, — you ” His 

voice was thick and harsh, so that speech was al- 
most unintelligible. 

She put up her hands. “Oh, — no, no, no! Tve 
only a limited newly acquired vocabulary to meet 
the requirements of a word-play of wit! I’m not 
worth your steel — yet ! A few more months’ train- 
ing and I’ll try to compete ” 

“So — you, too, are becoming skilled in the play 
of words, — are you? Shelterng yourself behind 
rhetoric, — taking refuge in conventional — choice — 
apt little phrases! You — Margy Preston, — little, 
unsophisticated, innocent. Southern beauty, — fresh 
and pure from the hands of God ” 

“Oh! Ohr Margy protested. His biting sar- 
casm played about her complacent figure and none 
of its fire touched her. She leaned back and looked 
at him. “How ardent you are! To wake me up 

[288] 


fl)f tbt taeafe 

at this unearthly hour and command me to come 
down here — that you mig“ht relieve yourself of long- 
suppressed admiration, and pour forth your adoring 
soul! I — I thought you might want me to fry an 
egg and make some coffee !” 

‘‘Ah, no,” he laughed bitterly; “be it far from 
me to invite a daughter of the South to fry her 
complexion over a stove for any purpose! But 
stop! I’ve had enough! I’ve just been wondering 
how long you would keep up this little comedy! 
You’ve been an apt pupil; you’ve learned the ways 
of the world well! You look up at me — to-day — 
this morning — unflinchingly, with those wide- 
stretched gray eyes, — hiding behind them, — a nar- 
row, vain, wicked little soul!” 

In the blaze of his own misery, Douglas was 
blind to everything else beside it. 

As he first began to speak, neither her tired body 
nor dulled brain could comprehend what he was 
saying. She felt that they were near another emo- 
tional earthquake, and was glad that she had 
learned to meet it with composure. But — as he 
finished she felt her heart stand still; then the 
blood rise as a tide in her veins, pouring in a scar- 
let stream all over her face. 

He made a movement toward her. 

“Ha-a, — so — I see at last, — we will begin to 
understand each other! From your blushes I judge 
you realize the point toward which our little comedy 
was focussed!” 

He laughed, and Margy shivered. 

“Don’t you?” he repeated. 


Cl)e 

She shook her head, unable to utter a sound. 

He came close to her, and caught her arm 
roughly. 

‘‘Why did your face change?” with a ring of 
triumph. “Why, — answer me?” He rapped out 
the words angrily and waited. 

She looked at him, her face deadly pale now, her 
lips quivering. “Why — indeed?” she gasped. 

He laughed again. “There’s no need to prolong 
this! Now — I want to ask you a question. Did 
you go to the hop last night?” 

Margy was breathing hard. “I did not.” 

“Where were you?” 

“I was with Robert. I — we ” 

“Very well, — that will do! Now^ — answer a di- 
rect question. Then — I’m done — done forever, — 
but I must hear the naked truth from your own 
lips! You will know, then, that from this hour 
everything is over between us! Do you love Rob- 
ert Norwood?” 

Margy stared back at him stupidly. He, too, was 
white, and for the first time she saw the drawn 
look about his mouth. In a flash of comprehen- 
sion, terror and pity clutched her heart. She held 
out her hands appealingly. 

“Oh ! Oh, — Douglas, — you don’t think ” 

He stopped her with a gesture. 

“Answer — I tell you, yes or no! I’m done with 
evasions! Can’t you answer a direct question — 
yes or no , — do youf* 

Margy’s color came and went. “But, Doug- 


ffl>f tfic jaieafe 

“Answer, — ^yes or no!” 

Margy was shaking from head to foot; she 
gripped the back of a chair to steady herself. “I 
cannot answer yes or no — I must explain ” 

“Yes or no! Yes or no!” 

For a moment she felt an icy shame wrapping 
about her. Then — she raised her head; her voice 
was low and tense. 

“You demand a direct answer, — without any ex- 
planation whatever?” 

“Absolutely none! I want an answer — yes or 
no!” 

“Very well — then — yes , — but not ” 

Douglas fell back from her. 

“That will do! Ha — don’t come near me — don’t 
touch me!” 

She sprang to her feet; she felt hurt, — beaten; 
but she threw back her head, like a stag of the for- 
est at a first note of challenge. 

“I don’t want to touch you, — but you shall hear 
me ! You shall not put a slur on my love for you ! 
It is all a mistake — I tell you — a horrible mis- 
take!” 

She paused, standing rigid, with lips compressed, 
— ^her nostrils quivering. “Wait — wait — give me 
a moment!” she faltered She felt his eyes upon 
her; they seemed to lash her with whips of unbear- 
able humiliation. She stood shivering behind her 
defenses that had fallen about her. One last mo- 
ment of shrinking indecision, — choking down a sob 
in her throat, a torrent of words poured forth. 

“It’s all a mistake, Douglas, — a wretched, awful 

[291] 


C6c ©trengt6 

mistake! It’s a long story, — but listen — oh — oh — 
you shall listen! Just after you left last night I 
was feeling very angry and — hurt! I have felt 
hurt — for a long time — somehow! A spirit of de- 
fiance, of mischief, of daring took possession of 
me! I was nervous, — overwrought! I — I was 
miserable — I just couldn’t help it! 

“I phoned for Robert, — and, following Julia’s 

suggestion, we went in search of a cook ” 

Douglas’ lip curled. ‘^It was Julia’s suggestion 
— that took you to that Negro meeting with Rob- 
ert, — against my command, — was it?” 

‘‘No — no,” she cried brokenly; “but your com- 
mand — Douglas, angered me ” 

“Your promenading with Robert, — up and down 
impossible streets, — your going to that Negro mass 
meeting, — your dining at the Jefferson afterward, 

■ — it was all in search of a cook, — was it?” 

Margy winced, as though he had struck her in 
the face, and stared at him with dilated eyes. 

“And now — you tell me that my command an- 
gered you! You think that a reasonable excuse? 
I heard from Alfred Mayer last night, things that 
people are saying about you and Robert that sear 
the lips as they are told! I’ve been wrenched in 
body and soul! Suspicion breeds on itself; my 
faith in you was a perfect thing! Your blase, in- 
different attitude this morning maddened me ! All 
night long, — I have fought hellish shadows in the 
dark, — the feeling of having been tricked! God, 
Margy! It has unbalanced the mind of stronger 
men than I!” 


[292] 


Df the menu 

As he finished speaking she threw her hands out 
to him in abject appeal. 

'‘Douglas — Douglas ’’ 

"Did you see Mayer last night ?” he asked curtly. 

Her hands fell slowly to her side. “We met him, 
— just as we — we were going to the league, — there 
was a horrid fog ” 

“He was loofing for you,” he interrupted. 

Margy made a determined effort to make him 
listen to her. “Julia told me to go, Douglas, — she 
was here. She told me — she reminded me that it 
was my first duty to try to find a servant, — so 
that ” 

“Of course she did!” 

“And — and — we did try! We couldn’t find the 
number ; no one would tell us. It seems they never 
will tell, — where anyone is! I felt that I couldn’t 
spend another day — as I spent yesterday; that Julia 
was right, — I must have a cook. You had gone — 
Julia and Louise had an engagement, — there was 
no one to go with me, — but Robert!” 

At the mention of Robert’s name a dark flush 
flamed in Douglas’ face. 

“But — you went to that mass meeting! Don’t 
you know, — that I know, that neither you nor 
Robert cared two straws to hear Maggie speak, — 
that you wouldn’t go two steps to attend a Negro 
meeting — for any purpose! I’ve observed a few 
things, — since I’ve lived in the South! While you 
may be innocent of any specific charge, — you are 
guilty, just the same, — for your conduct has been 

[293] 


such as to produce — these rumors, — the suggestions 
behind them!” 

‘‘Am I responsible for the vulgarity of evil 
tongues? Oh — Douglas ” 

“Your wilful disregard of my command, — ^you 
going to that Rebeccah League, — has flashed upon 
the canvas an evil brood of scandals! You can’t 
play with fire and mot be burned !” 

“You are cruel ” 

“I mean to be cruel ” 

“Then — you shall not be unjust! You saw noth- 
ing in my being with Robert last night ! You were 
i'mpatient, — because I suggested that you — ^might 
care ! You’ve told me to go with him, — dozens of 
times! You know you have perfect confidence in 
Robert ” 

“I have confidence in no man! My confidence 
has been — in you!” He turned to her, quivering 
with passion. 

“I don’t know what to say, — or what to think! 
Of course, you did wrong last night, — but we will 
let it pass ! I know something of the world, Margy, 
and the women in it! I fell in love with you — 
because you were not — of them! But during the 
past weeks I have been amazed at the eagerness 
with which you have revelled in cheap excitement, 
— gratifying a sense of social power and silly van- 
ity! You have fallen from the pinnacle upon which 
I placed you, and I must reckon with you now, — 
on a different plane. Like all Southern women, — 
you are narrow, vain, selfish! 

“For the first years of our married life the role 

[294] 


SDf tbc jajeafe 

of being a devoted mother fed your woman’s de- 
mand for excitement. But when the mere animal 
instinct of maternity weakened, as it always does 
after the second year, — you began to look about 
for fresh adventure. You found it — in the con- 
tinued homage of a picturesque knight, — out of the 
noble past — a real aristocrat, with shapely head and 
wide slouch hat, who maintains his loyalty to a 
youthful passion with more ardor and zeal than 
good sense or good taste !” 

His words seemed to fall over each other; she 
looked at him steadily, and was silent. In his fierce 
outburst of temper and stinging taunts, this silence 
only angered him more. 

‘‘Are you growing into one of those silly wom- 
en who can go any length, short of losing the caus- 
tic virtue of being ‘good,’ — feasting vanity and a 
sense of power on the sight of a man’s weakness 
or a man’s desire? I tell you, Margy, — I’ve sown 
wild oats, — and I’ve known bad women who were 
better and had more virtue than a great many ‘good’ 
ones I” 

Margy was still silent. Even in the midst of 
the fury with which he lashed himself he knew that 
to the very core Margy was a gentlewoman. A 
coarse or violent answer never passed her lips. He 
saw that the hurt of his brutal accusations had 
stung her into silence. He watched the lights 
spring into those wonderful eyes; he thought he 
read wonder and contempt, — ^passions excited but 
controlled. 

She stood very still. Every defense was gone 

[295] 


C!)e ^ttcnstj^ 

now; her full lips shut level with resolution; she 
could find refuge only in open confession and for- 
giveness. 

^'Douglas — you’ve been brooding all night — you 
scarcely know what you say. And I — I — it has 
been my fault, after all. I have brought it all on 
myself. Won’t you come — and sit down here — by 
me — and let me tell you everything?” 

She came up close to him, and pulled him gently 
down beside her. He drew his hand sharply away 
from her. Pride still stormed within her, — but 
love forced the plea. 

‘'Will you listen to me, Douglas, — and try to 
understand what I say?” 

“Go on.” 

Margy swallowed hard, but went on eagerly: 

“Absurd as it may seem to you, — these weeks I 
have been following a line that I marked out for 
myself deliberately. I had reached a point, Doug- 
las, — when I was — afraid! Everything seemed to 
go wrong; ;I seemed to fail you at every point! 
You were changing — dear, and I thought that you 
were disappointed in me — that I was not measuring 
up to what you expected of me, that — somehow — I 
didn’t seem to be able to satisfy your life! Our 
home was not orderly, — it was uncomfortable for 
you; I couldn’t keep a servant, — I couldn’t man- 
age ! These thoughts, Douglas, grew and grew, — 
until they became an awful spectre that haunted me 
day and night!” 

She choked back a sob and waited for some sign 
[296] 


2Df tfte mtak 

or word of understanding; but his face was grim 
and set. 

‘'I had been so happy — so gloriously happy! 
Those first months I lived in a magic world! I 
wanted everything to stay — as they were then. Ah 
— those days of wild joy — I couldn’t give them up! 
The turmoil and confusion of a city bewilders and 
oppresses me; I don’t know how to live in it. I 
longed for a quiet, little nest, — a warm sheltered 
nook, full of sunshine and peace, safe and secure — 
with you, — and our babies! 

‘‘One day Julia came and found me when I was 
particularly disheartened. She understood at once 
— as she always does, and she tried to help and 
comfort me. You know the way she has! She 
showed me that I was morbid and melancholy. She 
told me that I must go out more — with you and be 
bright and happy and gay. I saw, at once, that she 
was right. But — I was never happy, Douglas; I 
was only merry, — my heart was heavy as lead ! 

“It was all a mistake — I see it now. I am less 
lonely here at home, alone, — than I am out in the 
gay world! But — I tried — I tried so hard. I 
wanted — I thought to please you! And there was 
always before me that awful spectre of losing your 
love driving me on! How could I hope to hold 
you — when other women, — more fascinating, — 
more beautiful than I — had failed? Julia — you 
loved Julia — once! I was afraid — Douglas^ — oh, 
so afraid!” 

“A woman doesn’t trifle with her honor — to 
hold her husband’s love, Margy!” 

[297] 


Cfie @)tren0tft 

‘^Oh! I know how it looks to you! I was very 
silly! I even thought it would help me — to make 
you jealous of Robert, — that it would — somehow — 
prove your love for me — to have you show some 
feeling ** 

‘‘Childish nonsense !” 

“Yes — yes — but it’s the truth, Douglas, — it’s the 
truth! You do believe me, — oh, my love, — you do 
believe me?” 

She buried her face in her arms, and sobs shook 
her from head to foot. 

“I don’t know — what to believe!” 

Through his heavy mood he felt the sound of her 
voice, humble and proud, impassioned and plead- 
ing. 

“To be jealous of you, Margy, — is to insult 
you ” 

“Yes — ^yes — I know now! But — Douglas, — it 
was this spectre, — this nameless fear that clutched 
my heart, — that made it impossible for me to see 
things as I ought to. Can’t you understand — I can- 
not live without your love — and trust! Douglas — 
Douglas — won’t you — won’t you forgive me?” 

She threw her arms about his neck and clung to 
him. Her hair loosened and fell across his shoul- 
der; he ran his hand through it and held her. He 
felt her slight body tremble ; he heard a door open 
in the back of the house and the patter of little 
feet across the floor. Tears welled up in his eyes 
at last, — and his face dropped on her hair. 


[298] 


s>t tbt mtnu 


CHAPTER X 

COMFORT 

^^COL’GER — ^he fell off his horse — he wouldn't 

^ wide to battle !” 

Preston sobbed, turning his curly head to one 
side, unable to bear the sight of a bleeding finger. 

‘‘He was a poor soldier — wasn’t he ? Maybe he 
was afraid !” Margy suggested, putting a soft ban- 
dage ahptlt the wounded, fat, little hand. 

“He was 'faid! So — so — I shoot him, an’ — an* 

' — ^pi’tle ’napped my finger !” 

“Poor little finger !” Margy gathered him in her 
arms and crushed him to her heart. The quick 
tears that were near the surface filled her eyes. 

“Sometimes our best weapons turn upon us, 
dear,” she swallowed hard, “but — where did you 
get that pistol, Preston?” 

“I foun’ it.” 

Margy picked up the clumsy, rusty weapon and 
turned it in her hand. “Where did you find it?” 
she asked. 

“Down ’tairs ! I foun’ whole — heap — nice 
sings!” The big blue eyes opened wide, and he 
shook his curly head in delighted remembrance. 


Cfte %tttnstb 

‘‘There’s two big swords, en sorger belt, en a 
hatchet, en oh — lots o’ sings !” 

A flash of apprehension came over Margy. 

“Where, dear — where did you find these things ?” 
she asked anxiously. 

“Down ’tairs.” 

He led her downstairs and her worst fears were 
confirmed. Preston had opened Douglas’ chest of 
valued trophies and had scattered them on the li- 
brary floor, even into the kitchen and out into the 
back yard. “Oh, dear — oh, dear,” she cried, as she 
gathered the things together as best she could, al- 
though some were broken — a soldier uniform torn 
into shreds, an Indian bow a complete wreck. 

At the sight of her distress the child began to 
cry again. 

“There — there ! It’s all right now — never mind,” 
soothed Margy, “pick up all your own toys and put 
them away. We’ll give baby her bath.” 

It was nearly noon and Maggie had not come. 
Margy had not expected her. Mammy Clo busied 
herself with the work of the kitchen and the house 
as best her slow hands and feet could carry her, 
while Margy took possession of the nursery. She 
bathed the baby and dressed her in soft, sweet 
clothes. Little Preston trotted around, putting his 
toys away, stopping now and then by Margy, lean- 
ing his beautiful head against her knee, patting the 
baby’s pink cheek and playing with her. 

The soft sunlight danced over the bright room. 
The baby lay on Margy’s lap^ — her little feet bare 
and stretched out toward the warm fire-glow. Pres- 


Df tbt SiQeatt 

ton seated himself in a little chair beside them, 
sturdy legs kicking contentedly, white socks wrin- 
kled down over his shoes. In his chubby hand he 
held a piece of bread and butter that left its impress 
around his rosy mouth. 

The baby's eyes began to droop; Preston slipped 
away. Margy lifted the little form in her arms, 
snatched a light shawl from the foot of the crib, 
and threw it around her. The head fell upon her 
shoulder; sitting down, she leaned her face against 
her. She could feel the beating of the little heart 
against her breast. She was so warm, so sweet in 
her sleep! The touch of the little body, the moist 
little neck and hands — caused the warm blood to 
begin to flow through her own veins once more. 
She put her lips tenderly — clinging against the 
child’s forehead. Tears softly found their way 
down her own cheeks, as she rocked smoothly back 
and forth, humming one of Mammy Clo’s old lul- 
labys. 

When the little eyes finally closed fast, she tucked 
her in her crib, darkened the room, and tip-toed 
through the door into her own sitting-room. 

There was a warmer comfort in her heart than 
had been there for many weeks, despite a sense of 
failure and apprehension that pressed upon her like 
a leaden weight. How she dreaded to tell Douglas 
of the broken trophies! He would be angry, she 
knew. She remembered many scenes of similar 
import. Was it her carelessness? What — after all 
— were a few rusty relics — balanced against the 
tears of a child? 

[301] 


Cl)e ^trengtl) 

Her mind rehearsed over and over again every 
smallest detail of the morning scene with Douglas. 

The wound made by his fierce outburst had been 
deeper than she had thought. Every word seemed 
to be written across her heart in letters of fire! 
Words — only words! Yet — can eternity itself 
quite efiface the mark they sometimes leave? To 
Margy's gentle nature it seemed too horrible to be 
true — that she should have had such things said to 
her — even in the wildest anger, by anyone. But — 
by the one who had sworn to stand between her and 
all the hurts of the world — it was surely some hid- 
eous dream ! 

Suddenly she dropped on her knees by the couch 
and her head fell on her arm. She had won a vic- 
tory that morning, but it had been a cheap one. Did 
the hold that she had on her husband depend only 
upon the tint in her cheek — the perfume of her hair ! 
He had forgiven her because of this appeal to the 
senses, and Margy knew it! Where was his soul 
that she could not find it — ^that elusive soul-part 
of him, that lived and loved ! What was he think- 
ing of her now? She remembered many such part- 
ings with a kiss of reconciliation, only to meet the 
next time in a spirit of silent strife! Wherein did 
she fail — what was she to do ? 

She raised her head at last and rose to her feet. 
Surely, she was very weak, very childish. She was 
indeed morbid ! She would go to Julia ; Julia would 
understand everything better than she could ex- 
plain. After she had told Julia, and been com- 
forted by her, things would be brighter; courage 

[302] 


£Df tht 

and strength she always inspired would return to 
her. 

The way Julia had mapped out for her was doubt- 
less the best way for most women; but she would 
realize that it was not for her! Whatever hap- 
pened now she would be nothing to Douglas but her 
own self! It was this that won him at first. He 
had told her so! Why should she bruise herself 
trying to be — what she was not! 

After a simple luncheon that Mammy prepared 
for her, and Margy was dressed for the street, Mag- 
gie came in and went about her work in an ab- 
stracted, sullen manner — trying to hide a terror 
under a mask of injured innocence. 

‘‘You were very foolish, last night, Maggie,*’ 
Margy spoke at last, as she fastened her veil. 
“You’ve returned everything, have you?” 

“Yes-um.” Maggie hung her head. 

“I thought so. Don’t do such a thing again. 
You don’t want to go to jail — do you?” 

Maggie began to roll her eyes and wring her 
hands. 

“Never mind! Robert and I will say nothing 
— no one else knows!” 

At that moment Preston came bounding into the 
room, his hand held out straight in front of him, 
the bandage hanging loose by a thread and drops 
of blood oozing from the cut. In his blind haste 
he rushed straight toward Maggie. 

The next instant Maggie threw her arms above 
her head and sank in a heap on the floor, unearthly 
shrieks coming from between her ashen lips, her 

[303] 


Clje @»ttcn0t& 

eyes bulging in frozen fear. She rocked back and 
forth. 

‘'Oh, Lawdy — oh, Lawdy — oh, Lawdy 

Margy sprang toward her and caught her by the 
shoulder. 

“What’s the matter! Stop — Maggie, what has 
happened ?” 

Maggie gripped her arm and clung to her, look- 
ing wildly around and muttering incoherently. 

“It’s a sign from Heaven ! A sign from Heaven I” 
she shrieked at last. 

Preston, forgetting his own grievance in this 
new excitement, stood still, looking at her, his little 
finger pointed almost in her face, big glistening 
tears arrested in his eyes. 

“The blood! The blood!” Maggie gasped. 

Margy had been accustomed all her life to the 
Negro’s superstitious signs and omens, and she 
waited until Maggie’s terror had somewhat ex- 
pended itself. 

“Why should the sight of a drop of blood affect 
you to-day, Maggie?” she asked calmly. 

Maggie cringed before her. “Tain’t only dat! 
I got up dis mo’ning wid a awful feelin’! Napo- 
leon — oh Lawdy — oh Lawdy ” and she began to 

sway back and forth again, wringing her hands, her 
face contorted horribly. 

“What about Napoleon?” Margy asked. 

At last Maggie spoke between thick, short gasps. 

“He’s on a ship — way off in the ocean. ’Fore 
he lef’ I did sum washin’ fer ’im. They wus one 
ol’ shirt — ’twarn’t no good — so I hangs it in the 

[304] 


S)f tbt mtak 

lawndry in a corner, ’cross two hooks, on the inside 
I wall. It’s bin thar ever sence! When I kum dis 
mo’nin’ I goes to my room an’ then straight back 
to the kitchen. I caught sight o’ that shirt fum de 
doo’, — it wus drippin’ wet — wate’ jest a po’rin of’n 
it — Changin’ dar — right whar I lef’ it! Wate’ 
streamin’ down the wall — an’ halfway cross the 
[ floor! I knowed in er minit that it wus a sign to 
me fum Heaven dat Napeoleon is drowned — 
I knowed it — I knowed it — an’ now — the blood — oh, 
Lawd, hab mercy !” 

‘Who was in the laundry?” Margy asked curtly. 

“ ’Twarn’t not a soul — ’cepten the woman I brung 
[ to try the cook’s place. 

J “Where was she?” 

“She wus — in thar.” 

“Then, you may be sure, she or someone wet the 
shirt, Maggie.” 

“No-um. She say she ain’ teched it,” flashed 
Maggie with dull-witted persistency. “An’ it wus 
on the inside wall — not near no wate’ nowhar !” 

“It’s utterly absurd! You’re,” — Margy sup- 

pressed a smile, but there was a twinkle in her eye — 
“you’re nervous to-day and unstrung. One gets 
:! that way at times. Napoleon will return — you can 
take my word for that!” 

■ “Lemme fix yo’ finge’, honey,” spoke up Mammy 
Clo, who had quietly entered. Preston ran to her. 

“Alammy — do you know anything of that — wet 
shirt?” Margy asked, drawing on her gloves. 

Maggie stumbled up from the floor and left the 
room. 


[305] 


Cfte ^trengtl) 

‘^Dat I don’! ’T wouldn’t surprise me ef’n a sign 
fum Heben didn’t buss Maggie open one er dese 
days. Maggie ain’ nothin’ — she ain’l She won’ 
be a nigger en she can’ be w’ite folks ! She’s neither 
fish ner fowl, en de Lawd ain’ got no use fer sech 
trash, nohow !” 


[306] 


©f tbt mtaU 


CHAPTER XI 

^AN AWAKENING 

^^Ty/TISS FARWELL is not in/’ but the white 
maid in immaculate cap and apron held 
open the door invitingly. 

‘‘No?” As Margy entered the apartment she 
felt keenly the contrast between the order and com- 
fort that prevailed there and her own confused 
home she had just left. It was not a new sensa- 
tion; she had felt it often. But — worried as she 
was — it appeared a haven of rest and peace. Deli- 
cious warmth radiated from the blazing gas-logs 
and reflected its light over the rich surface of carved 
mahogany and polished floor. The dark woodwork 
of the room, the walls hung in crimson tapestries, 
the rich, soft rugs — seemed to open welcoming 
arms to her. 

“Til wait for her,” she spoke to the maid, as she 
sank into a chair. The chair was deep-cushioned, 
but in one place in the back something hard pressed 
against her. She shifted slightly, but made no 
effort to remove whatever it was. 

Margy loosed her wraps, threw them on her 
shoulders, and leaned her head against the back of 

[307] 


Cfte %)tttnstb 

the chair in a luxury of discontent. How elegant 
— how simple everything was ! 

In the center of the high, brick mantel, a hideous 
idol carved in dark red marble sat on a coiled black 
snake cut from onyx as a base. Margy had been 
told, but had forgotten the enormous price Julia had 
paid for the thing. It had been dug from the ruins 
of some heathen temple. Julia affected such queer 
things, she thought ; a long, dirty-looking pipe rested 
against a rusty hatchet; a copper bowl was filled 
with queer-shaped good-luck stones. A sweet, spicy 
incense rose from a tiny metal vase; it filled the 
room with delicious fragrance. 

Margy ’s eyes rested on a small rug before the 
entrance of a bay window. It was an old Persian 
prayer rug — an almost priceless thing — a marvel of 
artistic beauty! How many men and women, she 
wondered, had spread it toward Mecca and kneeled 
and prayed upon it in the light of the setting sun! 
Had they, too, been comforted? How well Julia 
fitted in with all this ! 

Under the polished surface of a massive teak- 
wood chair, half hidden between intricate filigree 
work, she noticed a tiny spider had spun its web 
and was torturing a little fly that had been caught 
in its silken mesh. Margy watched it absently, as 
the helpless fly struggled and fought, and then — 
became quiet, still. After its victim’s slow death 
the spider began to feast with voluptuous greed. 
How was it — that in this perfection of housekeeping 
order and cleanliness such a thing was possible! 
Margy smiled. But — oh, how cruel and treacher- 


Df 

ous that spider was! She shivered, and her eyes 
sought the glowing logs. 

When she next raised them they fell on Julia’s 
sable toque that lay on a small table. Margy was 
quick to see that the beautiful aigrettes were again 
in their accustomed place. They were on — not quite 
straight, but no doubt Maggie had worked fast, and 
her hands were clumsy at best. 

As her eyes traced the long, curved, graceful 
lines, a picture flashed in Margy’s mind — a picture 
of the bleeding breast of a brooding mother bird, 
when cruel hands tore her proud plumage from her 
and left her to die in agonizing pain I How could 
one do such things! But — how beautiful they 
were in their soft iridescent sheen — with what 
grace they waved over Julia’s black hair — how be- 
coming they were to her ! Strange, though, that a 
woman like Julia would wear them! 

The warm fire-glow, the quiet, the slowly ascend- 
ing incense, acting like a strong narcotic, began to 
steal over Margy’s senses. Her eyes slowly closed ; 
every tired muscle relaxed — ^her head drooped to one 
side. The last conscious sensation was the uncom- 
fortable feeling against her back ! She made a slow 
move as though to change positions, but her head 
drooped lower, and she was fast asleep. 

She awakened suddenly with a shock and a 
scream ! She thought that she was falling — falling 
— falling down into some dark, bottomless pit! 
Now and then she would catch a projection, only to 
be hurled down again with terrific force by a great 
suspended iron hammer beating against her back. 

[309] 


C6e %>tttnstb 

''Oh! Oh!” She rubbed her eyes, as she sprang 
to her feet, trembling from head to foot. "Why — 
why — how queer! I must have gone to sleep — 
and I dreamed — oh — here it is ! Here is the ham- 
mer!” 

She laughed and pulled a book from the deep up- 
holstery of the chair. 

"Ibsen’s Ghosts,” she read aloud. "What hard 
corners it has for so small a book!” 

She turned it in her hand, and as she did so a 
paper fluttered from between the covers and slid 
across the floor, stopping by the brass fender before 
the fire. She stooped and picked it up. Her hand 
unwittingly caused it to fall open directly in front 
of the white and crimson light of the fire-logs. Her 
eye caught the dim outline of a large, shadowy 
water mark. Leaning over, curiously, she spread 
the sheet wide open directly before her. The letters 
that had been obscured at first assumed clear, visible 
shape — "Lubin Bond No. 4.” 

Puzzled and bewildered, she found herself read- 
ing the thing over and over again, without any clear 
comprehension of it. "Lubin Bond No. 4” — where 
had she seen it? Presently a glimmer of meaning 
flashed upon her, startling her senses like an elec- 
tric shock. 

What were Maggie’s papers doing here? What 
peculiar writing! It looked like a studied disguise! 
She had seen Maggie’s writing often, and by no 
process of the imagination could she presume that 
Maggie’s hand had formed the straight, precise, 

[310] 


tbt SiQeak 

regular characters. It was not a letter; it had no 
beginning and no ending. 

Oh, well! It didn’t concern her! She started 
to refold it, when her eye caught her own name 
several lines from the top of the page. But — of 
course, she couldn’t read it! She folded the note 
hurriedly and carried it to a desk in a corner, and 
was in the act of putting it down with the book, 
when she saw a folded note, with a corner turned 
down, addressed to Julia in Maggie’s unmistakable 
handwriting, lying conspicuously in the center on 
the top of the desk. 

Margy looked curiously from one to the other. 
Slowly — as if against her will — she opened the 
loose sheet she was still holding and read it. 

‘'I want you to leave at the end of this week. By 
that time, no member of the your League will work 
for Mrs. Lloyd. Any outsider who happens to 
come will be forced to quit in twenty-four hours. 
The power is in your hands, you must use it. For 
the services you have rendered me, I will pay you 
generously. You’ve carried out your mission well.” 

Margy read it over at first hurriedly, scarcely 
knowing why she did it; then again more carefully, 
and again she studied each word. A thought, a 
suspicion seemed to be standing at the threshold of 
her mind, but she fought it off and would not let 
it enter. 

She put the paper down, and considering nothing 
but an impulse to understand, gazed at the letter ad- 

[311] 


C6e ©trengtfi 

dressed to Miss Farwell. Should she read it? Her 
hesitation was momentary. No; no, she could not 
read a letter! 

She walked over to the window and threw it wide 
open; how close the room was! The breath of 
the incense came to her like a stifling aura ; the idol 
on the mantel seemed to be grinning at her in 
fiendish glee. She felt a sense of dizziness that fol- 
lows a physical blow. Her mind was dazed, fighting 
a great sea of anguish and horror that she knew 
would presently engulf her. She could even hear 
the waves crashing on waves far above her, coming 
nearer and nearer. 

She passed her hand across her forehead. Why 
was she here ? Oh, she remembered, she was wait- 
ing for Julia! Julia! The paper fluttered from her 
hands to the floor; the touch of it burned her like 
an instrument of torture! The roar was deafening 
now. At last it came, she put her hand to her throat 
and sank slowly to the floor, her head resting against 
the chair. She cowered there with a hidden face, 
with clutched hands and staring eyes! 

These papers, was it possible that they alone could 
sweep Margy’s brain with such power, clearing away 
pretension and flashing vividly before her the utter, 
absolute truth ! It seemed that she could hear black 
flapping wings about her, like the wail of the wind, 
charged with hate and revenge, the subtle workings 
of an evil mind that wrought its daily portion here! 
This mind, this personality, weaving treacherous 
mental pictures and suggestions had occupied these 
rooms, until the very force and power of their evil 
[312] 


ffl)f t6e (KOleafe 

influence breathed from the heavy hangings an3, 
massive carved teak-wood. 

Shriller, and more convincing yet, rose the voice 
of her woman’s awakened intuition, revealing facts 
that focussed to one point, proving Julia Farwell a 
traitor! Margy’s mind sped back over the years. 
She could see now Julia’s guiding hand leading her, 
and by the light of revelation, knew that each inci- 
dent had ended in her own undoing. Julia had suc- 
ceeded in every cunningly wrought detail. What 
was she, to stand against such intrigue and treach- 
ery I 

Julia had used Maggie as her tool; the two dis- 
guised notes were her daily instructions to Maggie ! 
She had installed her in the heart of her home and 
had worked through her. Why? A blighting bit- 
terness froze over Margy’s face. She laughed 
aloud! Why, indeed! 

There arose suddenly with insistent force many 
unexplained occurrences that grew into tragic signifi- 
cance. Margy went over them all, letting them 
slowly sink into her mind to the last drop of their 
accumulated falseness! Julia’s relation to her from 
the first had been an organized system of lies — lies ! 
The mask she used: tender, intimate friendship! 

And now what could she do? What could she do? 
Shocked to the center of her womanhood, quivering 
in every fibre with indignation and horror, the flood- 
gates opened at last and scalding tears streamed 
down her face. 

But stronger than a sense of desolation and pity, a 
feeling of outrage grew within her and became al- 

[313] 


C6e %tttnstb 

most ungovernable! A storm of hard anger shook 
her ! Some awful thing strangled her I The fight- 
ing blood of her forefathers, whose dust reposed 
among the quiet cedars and crepe-myrtle at Glen 
Haven, rallied to the need of their descendant ! 

In this supreme agony of life, it seemed that 
somewhere, somehow, she had been there before! 
That all her life she had known that this moment 
would come! She felt a strength within her, of 
whose existence she had never dreamed. 

As she staggered to her feet and slipped the two 
notes within her bosom she felt that the last vestige 
of youth dropped from her, that something within 
her had died; that when she left this room she would 
leave behind her some vital part of herself — as she 
had left her girlhood out in the storm. 

She was in a fiercer, a more terrible storm now. 
The lightning that flashed about her was the treach- 
erous gleams of a knife in the dark! There was 
danger surrounding her, lurking on every side; but 
she was no coward! She would fight — fight — for 
her own! 

At the click of the front door Margy threw back 
her head and was strangely calm and unmoved. She 
heard voices and waited. She was ready — she was 
impatient for Julia to enter! The heavy crimson 
hangings of the door parted and Robert stepped 
within the room. One glance at her face and h^ 
sprang to her side and caught her as she fell. 

“Margy!’’ 


[314T 


mt tfte meafe 


CHAPTER XII 

LOVE 

13 0BERT helped Margy to a chair and placed 
her in it. Louise, who had entered close be- 
hind him, fluttered about her, trying to remove her 
hat and loosen her wraps. 

*Tlease — please^ ’’ Margy protested, smiling 

wanly at them. She tried to cover her excitement, 
but the conventional phrases in which she had 
learned to take refuge failed her utterly. 

“Robert — won’t you please take me honie — Rob- 
ert ?” 

All effort fell away from her ; she looked beseech- 
ingly toward him. His determined dark eyes 
searched hers in silence. 

“Are you ill, Margy? What is the matter?” 

Louise asked. “You look as though you had seen a 
ghost !” 

“I think — I have!” she replied. “Will you take 
me — Robert ?” She held out her hand toward him. 

He was still silent, but he pulled her up beside 
him. Louise’s eyes followed them from the room in 
questioning wonder. At the door Robert turned 
sharply. 

[315] 


Cf)e %tttnstb 

‘‘You will excuse me?’’ he asked politely. He 
bowed and was about to close the door, when sud- 
denly he stepped inside again and came up close to 
her. “I am sorry — do you understand?” he asked 
in a low voice. 

“I don’t know,” she faltered. 

“At least — you can trust me — can’t you ?” 

She did not answer at once. 

“Can’t you?” he repeated. 

She raised her eyes and looked into his. 

“Y-yes.” 

He caught her hand a moment ; then he was gone. 

“You don’t mind?” cried Margy, as they came 
•into the thick, pasty air. 

“Mind? Of course not!” 

He drew her arm through his and held it firmly 
pressed against him. Mechanically, they walked 
for some blocks in silence. She was shaken still 
by the storm of anger, yet her torn heart w^as com- 
forted by his nearness. What more natural than 
that he should come to her now; her need of him 
was so great! The quiet force of his presence 
calmed her. 

“Robert — I don’t want to go home — not just yet. 
I am — in trouble — won’t you take me somewhere 
where we can talk ?” 

Robert fixed his eyes on the profile turned toward 
him; in the obscured light of the setting sun he 
studied it shrewdly. At length he spoke in a low 
voice. 

“You are sure — you want to — talk, Margy?” 

“Yes — oh, yes! I must talk to you — I must tell 

[316] 


DC tbt ^eait 

you many things! You want to hear them — if you 
can help me — don’t you — Robert?” 

Robert was silent. 

“You remember — you saved me — once — long 
ago — in the storm — at Glen Haven. It wouldn’t 
have been so hard — to die — then ” 

“No — no,” he cried hoarsely. He ground his 
teeth and clenched his hands hard. A thousand 
possibilities loomed before him. Whatever the 
cause, Margy was now a woman tortured beyond 
endurance. This was the one fact that dwarfed all 
other considerations. 

He pressed her arm hard against him; his eyes 
were deep in thought, his heart ached in pity and 
tenderness toward her. 

“Things strike back at us in this world, Margy 
— it’s the way life deals with all of us!” 

“Maybe — it’s life striking back at me now — ^be- 
cause of the way I — treated you ,” she said. 

“I was not thinking of you — but of others,” he 
quickly interposed. “Listen, dear! I had an awful 
blow — once — you understand! It came at a time 
when the world was brightest before me. In the 
flashing of an eye I was changed from a careless 
boy to a man, facing life! And — I conquered it — • 
I got a fresh grip! A living nerve cannot be torn 
out — but once.” 

He paused a moment ; she waited expectantly. 

“You found your happiness, Margy — perhaps I’ll 
find mine too, some day — who knows?” 

His strong hand closed over the one of hers lying 
on his arm. 


[317] 


Cl)e %tttnstb 

“And now — I will help you dear — to hold yours ! 
Tell me — that whatever I do — you will try to under- 
stand that I am doing it — only to help you — will 
you ?” 

“I fail in everything — everywhere! Perhaps, I 

don’t deserve to be happy 1” 

“Will you?” he persisted, not taking his eyes from 
her ; he was very much in earnest. 

“Yes— I will!” 

Instantly she felt his mood change. She had 
scarcely noticed where they were going. She had 
been content to follow his lead, and only when he 
stopped her did she realize that they had turned 
into a little park that projected out into the water a 
couple of blocks up the creek around the arch. They 
had skirted the edge, passing through a long, low 
arbor of rose vines, and were standing beside a 
bench that was sheltered behind a thick cluster of 
fir trees. 

“Here — ^here we are! Sit here and we can rest 
and talk.” 

The spot was isolated; she remembered that the 
arbor of rose vines was called “Lover’s Lane,” and 
that this particular bench also bore a name — but 
just what she couldn’t recall. 

They sat down together. Margy clasped her 
hands tightly in her lap and her face grew set and 
haggard. Suddenly she shivered. 

“I saw — a spider’s web — in Julia’s rooms to-day 

Robert laughed noisily. “So — that’s what it 

was !” 

[318] 


!SS>t tfte meak 

Margy still sat rigid. ‘‘A little fly had been 
caught — the spider killed it — oh, so slowly — and 
then — feasted upon it — and — and — did you ever 
notice how that idol grins — and grins ” 

Robert flashed her an anxious look, which quickly 
changed to bewilderment. He watched the slender 
throat quiver and the misty appeal of the steady 
clear gray eyes caused his heart to pound with 
indignation and pity. Never had she appeared so 
girlish — so appealing! But the face was heart- 
rending I 

He was thinking hard and fast, but could find no 
answer to the questions that flashed through his 
mind. These could be met later. Margy was in 
trouble — in desperate trouble — and now 

Suddenly he caught her hand between his. 

‘‘So — we’re going to have a nice, long chat to- 
gether — aren’t we? If you want to tell me any- 
thing — why — of course you can — but not just yet! 
I am going to do all the talking for a while — for a 
long time. Only,” he stroked her hand gently 
and playfully, “I tell no secrets! I might — but I 
won’t, for one always comes to hate the sight of 
the person they tell their secrets to — isn’t that so?” 

Margy ’s eyes rested upon Robert; the light fell 
full upon his face, with its strong, high-bred lines 
of chin and mouth. She felt a tender, protective 
power radiate from him. Margy knew that Rob- 
ert was holding her off from confiding in him — and 
in the depths of her heart she was grateful. A new 
understanding came to her of what he had said 
about helping her. 


[319] 


Cfje Strength 

For she had been conscious all the time that she 
was holding up a great load of pain and humiliation 
that would presently crush her afresh — in his 
knowledge of it! No — no — she must not speak, 
even to Robert, and he knew it ! The law that es- 
tablished a strip of silence between them at that 
moment was based on deeper things than conven- 
tion! It was inherent with Margy that anything 
between husband and wife is too sacred to be spoken 
of to anyone. After all, the pain that can be told 
is only half pain! 

“I am selfish, you see ! I want to do all the talk- 
ing myself !’’ he said. 

The tone of his voice was not sad; the cheerful 
sound of it impressed her most. Grateful surprise 
at his smiling eagerness lighted up her own face for 
a moment. 

“I am listening, dear,” she answered gently. 

‘‘You are tired, Margy — you need a change. Why 
don’t you go to Glen Haven for a rest?” 

For the flicker of an eyelash he saw her hesitate, j 
then she slowly shook her head. 

“I never expect to go to Glen Haven again, unless 
Douglas will go with me! And— he is always so 
busy. But — I will not go alone !” 

He went on as though he had not heard her. j 

“You need the country — the quiet companionship 
of green fields — of trees — of blue skies — these play- 
things of your childhood. You need to feel the I 
heat of the sun upon your head — the smell of the 
earth beneath your feet. We must get back once I; 
in a while — close to the soil from which our life Ij 
[320] 


©f tbt (DSeafe 

sprung. Think, Margy — soon it will be Spring; 
the sap will be running upward ; everything will bud 
and blossom into new life. The bluebirds will 
build their nests, the violets and jonquils and honey- 
suckle will bloom again. You are never lonely — 
there.’’ 

“Don’t!’' she cried hoarsely. 

“And then — there’s always the sea. That’s what’s 
the matter with you, Margy — you long for Glen 
Haven as a child in distress, longs for its mother !” 

Margy’s eyes filled, but she shook her head firmly. 

“If Douglas could take me, I would love to go — 
not otherwise.” 

“Wouldn’t Louise go with you?” he asked. 

“Louise — I guess so — but — no — no I” She 
turned and faced him. “Douglas needs me — now — 
Robert, more than he knows ! I am tired — tired of 
the struggle — but — oh, you don’t know, my fight 
is just beginning, and — I will not — run; you would 
not have me runT 

Robert felt a fierce surge of resentment; what 
had changed the light-hearted girl into a suffering, 
determined woman I He went on talking dreamily, 
aimlessly. But he was watching her, and the 
weight on his heart lifted a trifle as he saw the color 
slowly come back into her face. The influence of 
her surroundings, of his presence, soothed her. At 
last a melancholy shrinking crept into her eyes as 
they looked into his — a shrinking from his too inti- 
mate understanding — that struck him with new ten- 
derness. 


[321] 


Cfee 

"You must think — very strange things of me, 
Robert,” she spoke timidly. 

He laughed. “I am aware only of your charm — 
and your inconsistencies!” he replied with gallan- 
try. ‘If s always a woman’s prerogative to change 
her mind. You thought you wanted to talk, and 
you found out that you didn’t. You always were 
afraid of bogeys in the dark. You found one — the 
spider I guess — in Miss Farwell’s room this morn- 
ing, and you thought you wanted to tell me about 
it. Remember how you used to always lug some 
toy or other around with you — when you were 
afraid — or — when you couldn’t have your own way 
about things!” 

“But — I generally had it, too — didn’t I ?” 

He laughed again as he saw her throw back her 
head with the old childish gesture of defiance. After 
all, whatever there was to meet, he knew that she 
would meet it without fear. The clinging, helpless, 
quality has been stricken out of her. By what — 
he had not the faintest conception, unless some ugly 
rumors from the mustering of hideous tongues 
hinted at by Miss Farwell had reached her ears. 

Robert left her just at dusk at the door of her 
home. As he walked slowly back over the familiar 
route every nerve grew tense and he pulled his hat 
far down over his eyes. Something — someone had 
hurt Margy ! A mad thirst for vengeance mingled 
hotly with his sympathy and wonder. He reso- 
lutely set himself to watch. In his inmost soul 
there was a fierce assumption of the right to watch, 
and, if need be, to act. 


mt the 

Margy found the house in even greater disorder 
than when she had left it. She went directly to her 
room and rang for Maggie. Maggie entered boldly 
and waited with her accustomed pose. Margy sur- 
veyed her from head to foot as though she were 
seeing her for the first time. 

‘‘Close the door — I want to ask you some ques- 
tions.’* 

A sharp light of excitement leaped in Maggie’s 
dull eyes. She scented an outburst of some kind 
and secretly revelled in it. 

“What time did you come this morning?” 

“It was most twelve. I had so much to do and 


“I hadn’t expected you sooner. But you were 
here early also !” Margy asserted bluntly. Maggie’s 
face writhed in feigned amazement. 

“No — um! No mam I That I wasn’t !” 

Margy silenced her with an emphatic gesture. 

“Don’t lie, Maggie! I’ve had quite enough of 
that!” 

Maggie started and an ugly defiance settled over 
her ; her eyes glistened. 

“You brought a cook with you,” Margy stated. 
“What kind of woman is she?” 

“Well,” Maggie hesitated an instant, then went 
on, “she ain’t had no experience in town — she’s 
fresh from the country. But — she’s willing and 
obliging — and of course she can be taught ” 

Margy laughed bitterly. “Your memory is bet- 
ter than mine! You carry out your instructions 
well!” 


[323] 


Cfte %tttnstb 

Maggie stared at her stupidly. '^But — there’s 
no use for us to bandy words/' Margy went on. 
‘‘I will tell you that I know everything! And — I 
will not discuss it with you! You can get your 
things and leave my home, and until you are willing 
to speak the truth to me, never cross its threshold 
again." 

Maggie's eyes blazed, but she controlled herself 
by a mighty effort. 

suppose — Mr. Lloyd knows that you are doing 
this?" she asked evenly. 

‘‘You need give yourself no concern on that score. 
Mr. Lloyd will approve thoroughly!" 

Suddenly Maggie began to rage openly. The 
touch of white blood in her seemed to quicken the 
black, savage nature. 

“Go ! Sure — ^you bet Lll go. I ain’ never meant 
to stay ! Do you think I’d come here and slave for 
you? Not on your life! My coming was only a 
— trick !" 

“I’m perfectly aware of it. If you’re through 

fy 

“I’m through and I’ll go — and I’ll bet I’ll not be 
the only one to be leaving you before long ! I got 
eyes in my head and I knows a few things!" 

Margy was entirely unmoved. Nothing that 
Maggie could say had power to touch her in any 
way; it was so far beneath her notice that at this 
last scathing thrust she smiled. 

The smile seemed to touch a spark in Maggie that 
blazed into a savage splendor of language. 

“Hum! You think you’re something with your 

[324] 


2Df tbt Wltak 

fine clothes and your jewelry and your high doings 
— but you’ve got a name all over Graydon! Mr. 
Douglas — he’s tired of you — tired of your slovenly 
ways. And — they ain’t nobody coming to work 
for you — I don’t care how much you pays em !” 

“We will see, Maggie — we will see!” 

“We sure will! You can just bet your life on 
that !” 

“Have you no sense of — gratitude, at all ?” Margy 
asked curiously. 

“I got plenty of gratitude — where it belongs!” 
was the snarly reply. 

“I see — it belongs — to Miss Farwell!” 

“Who else should it belong to? She’s made me 
everything I am ” 

Margy laughed a low chuckle. “Indeed!” 

“And — I’m just as good as you are, I’ll have you 
know! Folks are saying things about you — ^that 
ain’ fitten to talk about ” 

“Stop!” 

Margy winced, but she raised her slight body to 
its full height and levelled steady eyes on Maggie 
until she was shamed to silence. “I’ve heard enough 
from you! I will not listen to another word ! If 
the time should ever come, Maggie, when you are 
in need or suffering. I’ll do what I can for you. 
Now — go !” 

“You needn’t fret yourself — I’ll never come to 
you for nothing!” Maggie muttered sullenly as she 
backed out of the room. 

Margy glanced hastily at her little brass clock ; she 
had a full hour or more before Douglas would 

[325] 


C&e %tttnsth 

come. She almost threw off her clothes in the de- 
sire for freedom, and busied herself with straighten- 
ing and dusting her room and putting everything 
in its right place. All feeling of fatigue strangely 
vanished. She called below stairs to Mammy, who 
told her that the cook and Maggie had gone, and 
that baby was asleep in her carriage, so she would 
fix a hot supper for them. 

“Have everything just as nice and dainty as you 
can, Mammy — and I’ll help you afterwards.” 

“Don’ worry ’bout dat, honey — I’ll take my time. 
It seems good an’ peaceful to hab de house t’ our- 
selves — don’t it?” 

“It certainly does!” Margy heartily agreed. 

She was indeed thankful for the loneliness and 
emptiness of the rooms; she realized suddenly how 
Maggie’s malign presence had filled them. Pres- 
ton climbed upon her couch and went to sleep there, 
holding a soldier tightly clasped in his arms. Margy 
smiled as she stooped over him and kissed the rosy 
little cheek that was hot and sticky; he could wait 
— she would bathe him later. 

Margy dressed herself all in white with a half- 
conscious thought that she was preparing herself as 
a bride — that at last they would understand each 
other, and be wedded — as they had never been ! 

As she finally surveyed herself in the mirror of 
her dresser, the lines about her mouth softened, and 
her eyes filled with tears that were more happy than 
sad. Since parting from Robert she had been filled 
with a mighty unconquerable longing for Douglas’ 
presence. There was no feeling of hurt dignity — 

[326] 


Df tSe mtaU 

no desire to reproach in her heart. She longed for 
her husband with a yearning that blinded her to all 
things but — her great love for him! 

The last few hours had been emersed in bitterness 
and gall, it is true, but life had not been so cruel yet 
as to rob her of memories. Her mind had lingered 
among them as she dressed. With the bright clear- 
ness of an incident of yesterday, she recalled Doug- 
las as she had first seen him — standing erect, bathed 
in the golden light of the western sky, in the one 
spot that was most sacred to her! 

She remembered the night of their betrothal ; she 
felt his eager strong arm about her — she could hear 
every tone of the passionate words : 

‘Tlace your life in my hands, dear — ^you will 
never regret it ! I will love you the more because 
of your helplessness! With all the might of my 
heart and soul — for life, for death — for all eternity! 
— My love will shut you in so completely that you 
will want nothing beyond it ; I will bring it to you, 
fresh and fragrant, every day! — I will stand be- 
tween you and the world — between you and every 
hurt, every sorrow that can touch you ! — I will shield 
you with the last drop of my lifers blood! — I will 
love you so that you will have no power to exist 
outside of my protection !’’ 

She could smell the bride’s roses that she had 
carried on her wedding day; she could feel the in- 
stant’s emotion, when coming home at last, the very 
walls of the carriage as it rumbled over the rough 
paving, seemed to close in upon her with a caress as 

[327] 


C6e @»trengt8i 

she lay in Douglas’ arms. She could hear the mu- 
sic of his deep voice : love you — I love you!” 

Ah! Douglas was a good, brave, strong man. 
Things had come between them, it is true ; but they 
had been trifles — trifles! In this supreme agony 
of her life he would not fail her! 

She did not question herself or the future; she 
was content to leave it! The struggle through 
which she had passed was still quivering in every 
nerve of her overwrought body. 

Thoughts of Douglas brought relief from the 
passionate anguish of her heart. She had come to 
the moment in her life when time had ceased, and 
in all the universe only love remained. And — it 
was hers! What matter all else! He loved her; 
there was happiness enough for her in the thought 
of being with him; it was a sweetness that would 
more than compensate for all the hurts that life 
could bring to her. She stopped trying to think; 
she let herself only feel. 

As the hour for his coming approached, Margy’s 
whole body was listening. She heard every foot- 
fall — as it grew nearer, more distinct — as it died 
away ! 

She stood looking out of her window ; the street 
was very still. There were no stars ; only the arc- 
lamps made little paths of light across the black- 
ness. She stretched out her arms to the wide, coo’ 
darkness of the night; the warm blood that had 
stood stagnant rushed through her veins once more. 

At length she saw the outline of his figure as it 
emerged from the shadows of the bridge. Her 


Df tt)e s:^eak 

heart leaped out to meet him ! She ran lightly down 
the stairs and threw open the front door. He 
came rather heavily up the marble entrance and did 
not see her until she threw her arms around his 
neck. 

‘‘Douglas — my love — ^my love!” 


[3291 


Cfie ©trengtS 


CHAPTER XIII 

A NAKED TRUTH 

wasn’t dinner at all — it was only one of 

^ Mammy’s hot suppers. But — that’s part of a 
long story I have to tell you to-night.” 

Douglas had praised the simple meal, but it did 
not escape Margy that he scarcely knew what he 
was eating. As they walked through the library 
she caught his hand and gently turned his steps 
toward the staircase. He returned the pressure 
mechanically, and followed to her little sitting- 
room. 

“Don’t tell me that you have an engagement for 
to-night — I am not going to let you go anywhere — 
away from me !” she said. 

Douglas stood still in the middle of the room; 
at first, he rather avoided looking at her. But when 
at last his eyes fell upon her, they rested there, and 
gradually the harassed look cleared from them and 
a tender light replaced it. 

Her soft clinging white dress was a favorite of 
his; he had always loved her best in white. The 
long, flowing lines, semi-fitting her figure — the trail- 
ing draperies — accented the outline of each rounded 
curve. Her neck and shoulders were bare; the 
perfume of her presence filled the room. And there 

[330] 


t>e tbt taieafe 

was a subtle maturity about her — a new strength 
that he felt but could not define. 

Her hair was coiled in a low, loose coiffure, cov- 
ering the nape of her neck, hiding the top of her 
ears beneath a shining mass. Her face was un- 
usually pale. 

In her steady, clear, gray eyes there was a flicker 
of rare gold light that he had first seen in its full 
fire on that memorable night at Glen Haven, when, 
in the twilight dimness on the beach, she had con- 
fessed her love for him. 

‘Tink roses!” he spoke at last irrelevantly, as 
he came closer to her. He lifted one firm bud that 
rested above the lace of her dress against the white 
flesh, and kissed the place where it had lain. As 
his head bent low before her breast she ran her hand 
caressingly through his hair. “I made a mistake; 
I should have brought white roses — to-night 1 They 
are the only bit of color about you — even your face 
is white I” 

She nestled in his arms a moment. ‘‘And you 
i are going to spend the evening with me?” 

“I — ^promised — ^Julia ” 

“Julia can — wait I” with a sudden fierce note. 

She brought his velvet gown and slippers and 
; bade him put them on. 

“You’re determined to have your way, are you?” 

; He looked smilingly askance at the articles in her 
outstretched hands. “Is this the beginning of the 
new regime? If you have your way always — little 
tyrant — we would soon lose touch with everything 
and all social prestige.” 

[331] 


Cf)e Strength 

“Lose — social — prestige!’' she repeated with the 
puzzled scorn of the thoroughbred. She looked at 
him and seemed to see him in a different light. He 
caught the glance and did not like it. 

“Oh — well !” he retorted irritably, “all of us can't 
have the regal assurance of a long line of royal 
ancestors to sustain us! My great-grand-daddy 
might have been a hod-carrier for all I know — or 
care! It's wise in this day to keep appearances 
up." 

“If they do not keep us." Margy merely smiled 
and moved a little nearer to him. “I'll put your 
roses in water — while you put these on," she re- 
marked. 

He hesitated, but at last he took the gown and 
slippers. 

A little cry of joy broke from her. She began 
to unfasten the flowers from among the folds of 
her dress. 

“Don't take them off! Wear them to-night. 
Take care! The thorns are very sharp!" 

The word of warning came too late. He quickly 
gathered the little pricked hand between both of his 
and stooped and kissed it. “Poor little hand ! How 
can thorns grow among such beauty!” 

Margy started — then she drew her hand gently 
away. In the mere physical joy of his presence she 
had almost forgotten everything else. Now it came 
back to her in a blinding flash. But she laughed 
to herself at the absurdity of her first fear: that 
there might be a struggle before her to convince 
Douglas of her discovery. She hated and loathed 

[332] 


Df tbt oseait 

the unworthy thought and pushed it from her. It 
was so very simple, after all; a brief statement of 
facts would be all that was necessary. Her face 
flushed with this exultation of certainty; she gave 
little sign of the storm of anger and terror that had 
raged within her. 

A canary, swinging in the open window, roused 
by the vivid electric lights, burst into a roulade of 
joyful melody. Douglas lighted a cigar and sank 
back into a chair. 

‘‘See — what an obedient husband you have!’’ 

Margy looked at him sitting in quiet comfort, in 
his velvet gown and slippers and calm air of con- 
tentment; sh( was loathe to disturb him. It is so 
much easier to ignore things, concerning which 
speech is difficult. 

She threw a dark cover over the canary and lifted 
Preston, who was still asleep on the couch, and 
carried him into the bedroom and put him in the 
center of her own bed. Suddenly she remembered 
the broken trophies. Should she speak of them 
now? No. She would wait for that; it was a 
trifle. She lowered the lights and drew up a chair 
beside Douglas before the fire. 

*‘You are strangely changed to-night, Margy,” 
he remarked. 

^*Am I ?” she replied. There was nothing for her 
to do but to make a bold plunge. ‘T made a — a — 
discovery to-day, Douglas!” 

He did not answer for a moment, but the tone of 
her voice caused him to glance up into her face. 
In the dim light he saw only the vision of beauty 

[333] 


Cl)e gittengtl) 

she made, in her white, loose-fitting draperies, with 
the roses trembling among the laces on her breast. 

‘‘Make all the discoveries you please, dear — if 
they cause you happiness.” 

“But — this one made me very — wretched. At 

first it made me only want to — die!” 

He caught her hand playfully. “You — only 
twenty-one years removed from birth — you, talking 
of wanting to die. Fie — Margy — it will take a 
hundred years to quench all the fires of this little 
Southern body 1” 

“It was an awful shock,” she went on evenly, 
“and — because I know that it will hurt and shock 
you — I wish I didn’t have to tell you !” She spoke 
with a tinge of old-fashioned reserve. 

He lifted his eyebrows quizzically. “Oh! That’s 
the story you spoke of — in connection with our din- 
ner! Anything wrong with the babies, or is it 
about servants?” His brow contracted. “Let’s 
not thresh over those things to-night !” 

“It is about Maggie — indirectly — but it princi- 
pally concerns — Miss Farwell!” 

“Julia?” 

“Y-yes! Listen! Last night, after you had 
gone, I was ’phoning Robert — as I told you — from 
the library, when I picked up a scrap of paper that 
had been carelessly thrown toward the waste-basket. 
I crushed it and started to toss it aside, when my 
attention was first attracted by the peculiar writing. 
It was — like a disguised hand; the letters almost 
printed in straight characters. I had never seen 
anything like it. It was torn in two in the middle. 

[3341 


2Df tlje Witak 

I read it over; it was unintelligible to me. It ap- 
peared to be some work of Maggie’s in connection 
with her League. I noticed that the paper had a 
clear water-mark, ‘Lubin Bond No. 4.’ I thought 
nothing of it, but put it in my desk, intending to re- 
turn it to Maggie this morning.” 

She paused, but he did not speak, and she contin- 
ued. 

‘‘After luncheon to-day — but, wait! First — to 
go back — this morning, when you sent for me and 
I came down the stairs at seven, I saw Maggie be- 
hind the folds of the curtain in the dining-room. 
When I came into the library and closed the fold- 
ing doors I did not see her. Afterwards I decided 
I must have been mistaken, as she did not come in 
to work until twelve. But — I was not mistaken; 
she was there — in hiding — and she heard every 

word that we said ” 

“How do you know this ” 

“I will come to that presently.” Margy’s voice 
was low; her face became very white again; she 
stood motionless. Her fixed eyes shone with an 
almost dazzling light. Douglas saw it and won- 
dered. Some extraordinary elevation heightened 
her voice and entire person. 

“After luncheon I went to see Julia; I went to 
seek her help and comfort as I have done for years. 
She was not at home ; I went in to wait for her. I 
sat down before the fire and I fell asleep. I had a 
horrible dream; I awoke with a shock. A little 
book with hard corners was wedged in the back of 
the chair; it had been pressing against me. I re- 

[335] 


Clje ©trengtft 

moved it — and — a paper fell out of it. As I picked 
it up I saw the water-mark; it was ‘Lubin Bond No. 
4.' For a moment I could not remember where I 
had seen it. But it came to me in a flash. I ex- 
amined it ; it had the same peculiar writing. It was 
not a letter; it had no beginning and no ending. I 
did not intend to read it until I caught my own 
name among the characters. It arrested my atten- 
tion. Even then — I walked across the room to put 
it on Julia’s desk. There I saw a folded note, in 
Maggie’s writing, addressed to Julia. I looked 
from one to the other; a terrible suspicion grew 
upon me — I scarcely know how it came. Without 
realizing what I was doing, I read the open paper 
that was still in my hand. It proved — a revela- 
tion!” 

‘'A revelation!” Douglas stared at her. “Of 
what? Go on — go on!” 

“I have those two notes — I’ll get them — they will 
explain everything to you.” 

Douglas’ eyes followed Margy across the room 
in puzzled consternation. As yet, he had not the 
first suggestion of what she had been driving at. 

Margy returned with the two open, crumpled 
sheets, and also the folded note with the corner 
turned down, addressed to Miss Farwell. 

“What are you doing with — that?'' he asked 
sharply, as he caught sight of the note. 

“I brought it — to you. After you have read 
these — ^you can do as you please — about the other.” 

Douglas lifted his eyebrows with a keen glance. 
“And you — have read it?” he asked quietly. 

[336] 


©f tbt meafe 

— not that! These two were — not letters!” 
Margy replied, a trifle hurt at the abrupt attitude 
of defense that his manner, rather than his words, 
forced upon her. 

Douglas took the papers. He placed his half- 
burned cigar carefully across the end of the table. 
Every move that he made was slow and deliberate. 
He spread open the two sheets of paper and held 
the folded note in his hand. 

He read the words over several times. 

“Bring someone willing and obliging, but igno- 
rant and unskilled, one fresh from the country and 
the cornfield, with no experience whatever. This 
class must be taught. It’s the housekeeper’s duty 
to train and equip them for efficient service. Re- 
port to me at five instead of four as usual.” 

He glanced sharply at Margy — and began the 
second. 

“I want you to leave at the end of this week. By 
that time no member of your League will work for 
Mrs. Lloyd. Any outsider who happens to come 
will be forced to quit in twenty-four hours. The 
power is in your hands, you must use it. For the 
services you have rendered me I will pay you gen- 
erously. You’ve carried out your mission well.” 

Douglas turned the sheet over impatiently. “It’s 
some sort of — jargon of Maggie’s! That’s what 
it seems to me ! What have these — to do with you 
or Miss Farwell?” he asked. 

Margy’s voice grew firm and steady. “Those 
words were written by Miss Farwell. They are 
her instructions to Maggie!” 

[337] 


Cije ^ttetigt6 

“I am very dense,” he said, shortly. “I fail to 
grasp the connection at all/’ 

Margy’s eyes flashed and narrowed. ‘‘It’s all 
part of a long-standing network of scheming. She 
meant to wreak her vengeance upon me — by break- 
ing up our home ” 

Swift blood surged over Douglas’ face. “In the 
name of Heaven — what are you talking about? 
What utter nonsense! You must be out of your 
senses ! Have you forgotten all that Julia Farwell 
has done for you? Have you forgotten her wed- 
ding gift to you ” 

“I have not forgotten,” was the calm rejoinder. 
“That was the foundation upon which she has 
worked! It was not a clean gift! Douglas — 
Douglas — ^my eyes are open — at last! She hates 
me — for taking you! She has always hated me 


“You are — losing your senses, Margy! Drivel- 
ling idiocy !” he cried, springing to his feet. “What 
proof have you? How do you know — these things? 
What proofs have you — that she even wrote these 
notes ?” 

“How do I know it?” Margy’s eyes opened 
wide. “Every fibre of my being, every drop of 
blood in my body, tells me that it is the truth! I 
know it — I know it!” 

She paused and her voice became more steady. 

“Listen, Douglas — I, too, was stunned — just as 
you are ! In a first attempt to understand it seemed 
that — that it couldn’t be so! Yet, there was this 
terrible testimony!” 


[338] 


©f tf)e mtak 

He laughed. “What testimony ? The notes — or 
the dream?” 

“Both,” she replied. “Douglas, I loved Julia — 
you know it; I almost worshipped her! But there 
— standing in her room, with those two notes burn- 
ing into my brain, and the one addressed to her — 

! by Maggie — staring me in the face — I don’t know 
I how it was — it must have been my woman’s in- 
! sight and intuition — but instantly I knew — I saw — 
j the hideous, naked truth.” 

A deprecating smile played about Douglas’ mouth. 
“You don’t expect me to be much moved by re- 
marks of that kind — do you?” he questioned, with 
cutting sarcasm. “You’re excited — you’re beside 
yourself! Such talk is utter folly! I’ve known 
‘ Julia Farwell for a score of years or more — and 
1 I’ve never known a woman or a man to have a 
clearer head or a cleaner heart!” 

Margy stared at him — her eyes growing wider 
; and wider. 

i “You — ^you — can’t mean — that you do not be- 

! lieve — what I have told — ^you?” 

I Her tones were sharp, and she stretched both 
; hands imploringly toward him. He saw them 
; quiver and her face whiten, and a frightened ap- 
j peal creep into her eyes as they searched his face. 

! He met the look unflinchingly. 

“I believe — these ideas of yours are phantoms of 
a morbid imagination!” he asserted. “They are 
wild delusions — born of cheap jealousy — unworthy 
of you — or of discussion!” 

Margy choked back strangling cries of pain 

[339] 


C6e ©ttengtft 

within her. When she spoke her voice was clear. 

^Wou have Maggie’s letter to her! Read it — 
Douglas^ — if you want further proof,” she went on 
steadily, holding his eyes with hers. He did not 
move. 

''I shall not read it! I will not insult Miss Far- 
well by such a low device! I want no proof! I 
can assert to you as positively as you do to me — 
that she did not write those notes — that she is in- 
capable of the smallest part of such vulgar in- 
trigue ! Call Maggie — ask her about it !” 

have found out from Maggie all that I care 
to know! She practically acknowledged every- 
thing ! She said that her coming to me — was only 
a trick!” 

“So it might have been! Julia Farwell had 
nothing to do with it!” 

“She sent her to me!” 

“Out of the kindness of her heart — yes! Just 
as she has done a thousand other things for you!” 

A strange wave of excitement and fear passed 
over Margy, leaving her cold and still. She seemed 
to rouse herself with an effort. 

“Maggie described the new cook she brought with 
her to-day in the identical words of that first note. 
She was most insulting ! She exhausted her vocab- 
ulary in her anger at being dismissed !” 

Douglas, still holding the folded note in his hand, 
regarded her in calm consternation. 

“Dismissed! Well — you have — played thunder!” 


[340] 


©f tbt mt^u 


CHAPTER XIV 

’^AN UNEQUAL BATTLE 

TVyTARGY stood motionless ; time seemed to have 
come to a standstill in the little room. She 
felt an icy chill wrapping- about her. 

In a few terrible moments of endurance she saw 
that a conflict was now inevitable. It was to be a 
fight, after all! But gradually she became calm 
and composed. All the martial instincts of a fight- 
ing race leaped in her cheeks and glittered from 
her eyes. Julia Farwell was to be met on her own 
plane — the plane of crafty scheming — the working 
for an end by secret, subtle means. She would pit 
her wits against the woman ; she would get Douglas 
away from her. 

She was not afraid now; she felt the upholding 
power of right on her side; she would fight for 
Douglas and her home — even against his will. 

He was in agonizing need, though he did not 
know it; she would protect him against himself — if 
it cost her her very life’s blood. Love would make 
of her a beggar; she would take any part to win 
and hold him. She raised her head and waited; 

[341] 


C6e ^tcengti) 

braver heroism than hers, at that moment, never 
bared its breast to storm! 

“At last — you’ve reached the climax of absurd- 
ity 1” he said. 

The swift blood surged to her face and suddenly 
receded, leaving her whiter than the silk she wore. 
But she regarded him intently, with a clear gaze. 

“I want to ask a favor, Douglas! I have never 
asked many things of you. You say that I am ex- 
cited, nervous, morbid ! Go with me to Glen Haven 
and let me rest — with you and our babies! If this 
is a phantom — of the brain — it has been caused by 
wounded love and worry!” 

The sudden gentle request took him off guard. 
His mind swerved abruptly to the practical point of 
view of her suggestion. 

“Go to Glen Haven at this season! It’s impos- 
sible!” he protested. “I am not a man of helpless 
leisure — who can dance attendance to every passing 
whim !” 

She did not take her eyes from his face. “I am 
in earnest; this request is no whim. I have good 
reasons !” she stammered. 

He shifted uneasily, but the frown deepened as 
he continued. “If I could spare the time Glen 
Haven is not habitable. The place is in ruins ! It 
would take a fortune to restore it. If we could 
afford to do that we couldn’t afford to live in it 
after it was done. It would require a retinue of 
servants ! If we had the money to pay them, where 
under heaven could we get them?” 

[342] 


Df tfje CQeak 

“We could get them there as easily as here!” she 
interrupted. 

'^What more can a woman want than you have 
right here — a comfortable, luxurious, modern home ! 
Oh — it’s too absurd to discuss.” 

“But — Douglas,” Margy began patiently, coming 
up close to him and putting her hand on his arm, 
“you don’t understand, dear. I care nothing for 
luxury; your rich furnishings stifle me at times. I 
would be happy to live in one room in the old place ! 
I could manage — somehow!” 

He laughed aloud — “Somehow 1” 

“For more than two hundred years my people 
lived there.” There was a little catch in her throat, 
but she went on resolutely. “There is not a room 
in the house, not a shrub on the lawn, not a spot on 
the land, that is not sacred to me. It is home; I 
am of its soil ! Oh, don’t you remember the quiet, 
the peace of the place! The little graveyard in the 
iron fence — the crepe-myrtle tree, where the mock- 
ing birds build their nests ” 

He shook off her detaining hand impatiently. 
“Yes — and the lizards and the snakes! You can’t 
live in a graveyard, Margy!” 

Margy gave a little choking sob. 

“I sometimes wish — I could!” but any inflicted 
hurt meant little to her now compared to the re- 
membrance of what was at stake. He seemed to 
regret the sudden harsh outburst, and went on more 
gently. 

“Of course — you can take the children and go for 
a rest at any time.” 


[343] 


C6e @trengt& 

^^]S[o — no ! I will not go without you !” she inter- 
posed. “You — you are my life, Douglas! I will 
always stay by you wherever you are! But oh — 
Douglas — won’t you ?” she pleaded. “I don’t know 
how to live — in a city. And the babies — they would 
love the fresh air — and the trees ! In the years to 
come you would be glad that you had done this — 
for me. I don’t know how to manage, here in 
Graydon, even with two babies, and — when there are 
— others — it will grow worse and worse ” 

Douglas wheeled upon her and looked at her 
from head to foot. His face darkened unpleas- 
antly. 

“Others! My Lord, Margy — the children you 
have take all of your time and strength! For 
Heaven’s sake, don’t begin to talk about — others.” 
He walked over to the table and picked up his cigar 
and threw it into the grate. “You Southern women 
seem to think that there’s no interest in life but ba- 
bies — babies — babies !” 

As he was speaking, Margy ’s youthful prettiness 
faded second by second, and never bloomed again. 
But she made no sound; she neither winced nor 
flinched. She would not suffer Douglas to see to 
what depths she had the power to feel. But his 
words cut like a whip lash across her face. 

Her eyes, set in locked anguish, hung upon his 
with an intensity that seemed to bring up between 
them all the ghosts of the tragedy of woman’s pain 
— passing in panorama. Her spirit revolted with 
a sense of outraged womanhood — and slowly her 
heart seemed to be drawing cruelly asunder. It 

[344] 


£[>f ttfe mtaU 

marked the crossing of an invisible line that lies in 
every woman’s life, which, once crossed, not all the 
powers and principalities of love can quite recross 
it. 

With this black gulf widening between them, 
they looked at each other. Her voice was very sad, 
but it held a firm note. 

‘‘I have no weapons against you, Douglas. Do 
you realize how great is your power to hurt me? I 
have no defense — from you! I am but a bit of 
human wreckage that has drifted down from the 
old-time days. I know — I have failed; it seems, 
somehow, that I can’t readjust myself to things as 
you want them.” 

She flushed a slow, painful red up to the roots of 
her hair. *'But — that — was the most cruel taunt 
that even a Julia Farwell could invent I” 

Her wits had been slow to grasp the infinite pity 
of this last defeat; she commanded her voice enough 
to say evenly : am in your way. I seem to owe 

you an apology for my very existence,” she ended 
with a little nervous gasp. 

But the old blood of her fathers stirred again and 
the dead rallied to her need. She looked at him 
calmly. 

do not mean to be harsh with you, Margy. You 
try my patience beyond endurance.” 

He felt a pang of anguish at the sight of her 
white, awe-stricken face. It was hard to tell, how- 
ever, what she was feeling under that quiet way of 
hers. It irritated him. 

Margy raised her hands and pressed them against 

[345] 


Cfie ©ttcngtft 

her head ; the delicate lace sleeve fell away from her 
arms. 

^‘You make mountains of mole-hills/’ he said, 
crossly. ‘‘Your very Southern nature makes things 
volcanic — out of nothing.” 

“And you call what I have told you to-night — 
nothing ?” she cried. 

“It is a mental weakness with you,” he went on, 
“to see goblins looming up before you, that on near 
view dissolve into childish fancy !” 

Margy’s arms dropped to her side. 

“Childish fancy!” she repeated. 

He paused, as if waiting for her to continue, but 
she was silent. 

“To use your favorite expression, I am tired — 
tired — tired! When I came home this evening it 
was with a sort of despairing hope that for once I 
could find peace. I felt that we had turned a page 
this morning.” 

Margy looked at him blindly — face white to the 
lips. 

“There is a great gulf fixed between this morn- 
ing — and now!” 

He laughed ironically. “Oh — if it isn’t one thing 
it is another! I am always balanced on ragged 
edges! But you cannot expect me to approve of 
what you have done to-day! You jump at conclu- 
sions — because you have a bad dream.” 

She raised herself to her full height and faced 
him. 

“It was no dream!” she interrupted in a quick 
denial. 


[346] 


ffl)f tbt lacafe 

‘‘A flash of wild fancy ” 

“It was not fancy!” 

“Based on the cheap devices of a half-savag'e 
negro ” 

“It was based upon what I saw with my own 
eyes — what my own soul told me!” 

“You accuse a woman of superb intelligence of a 
heinous crime — this woman who has been your best 
friend !” 

“My — best — friend !” she repeated slowly, with a 
smile. 

“You have no proofs — yet expect me to believe 
you when you get behind a rhetorical wall of lurid 
flame and cry out — I know it — I know it! Non- 
sense!” 

“I do know it,” she asserted passionately. 

He wheeled toward her again. “As a climax of 
folly, you’ve dismissed the only servant you’ve ever 
been able to keep, and stooped to the level of her 
insulting insolence!” He began to walk restlessly 
back and forth across the room. Presently he 
turned his attention again to the notes on the table. 
He scanned the address of the folded one in his 
hand. 

“Did you see Julia?” he asked abruptly. 

“No. While I was there — Robert and Louise 
came in — ^and Robert took me away.” 

Douglas shot her a keen glance. “Indeed ! Where 
did he take you?” 

Deep within her something sounded a note of 
warning, but in her determination that nothing 

[347] . 


Cfte Strengtft 

should ever be withheld again between them, she 
looked him clearly in the face and said : 

“I — I thought I wanted to ask — to tell him — what 
I had discovered. I felt — somehow — that he would 
understand. I was almost fainting — he saw it — 
and we walked around through the park.*' 

^‘Where?" 

‘‘To Lee Park, — we ” 

She winced as she saw him smile. 

“Through Lover’s Lane?” 

The slurring question cut her words and ripped 
through the quiet of the house. 

“Yes — yes — he talked to me — oh, so kindly. He 
helped me to see things — in the right way. I knew 
then that I must not speak of these things to any- 
one — but you !” 

A white heat of anger blazed in his keen blue 
eyes. In an almost incoherent storm of words he 
burst forth. 

“Of all grotesque perversions! You — ^you split 
fine moral hairs about not reading a note that hap- 
pens to be folded with a corner turned down, and 
read two that happen to be unfolded ” 

“They were not notes ” 

He brushed the interruption aside. “And then — 
then, without a quibble, go with Robert Norwood in 
the face of all that was said this morning — for a 
stroll to a place notorious as a shop-girl’s rendezvous 
with her sweetheart! You wanted his help and 
sympathy! He was — kind and gentle!” 

He stopped directly in front of her and seemed to 
hurl the words at her. 


[3481 


H>f tbt Witak 

— ah! I know the kindness of your Southern 
knights! I haven’t lived among them these years 
for nothing! I know something of the old tradi- 
tion of chivalry and what it covers ! But you — you 
have exceeded even the wildest latitude. Your 
moral vision is blinded !” 

“There’s no question of moral vision between 
Robert — and myself.” 

“Isn’t there?” he blazed. “Do you suppose the 
public will take the trouble to unravel truth from 
the web of slander that has been woven around 
you !” 

“I am not afraid of the public!” she flashed. 

“Then — then — if you have no sense of decency 
for yourself, I demand that in the future you con- 
sider my wishes and the protection of my honor !” 

Each word increased the torture Margy was en- 
during; her agonized face was ghastly. 

“Don’t — don’t,” she cried in a curiously child-like 
voice — every nerve within her strangling. She was 
so low in misery that she could only cling to him. 
Her face was now white with a luminous whiteness 
of excitement — ^her eyes were full of strange fires. 

“Ah — Julia Farwell must feel that her cup of 
vengeance — is full indeed — when she knows — that 
you would thus — insult me !” 

He towered over her. “Julia! Why blame — 
Julia? Why not lower your ideal — a trifle — and 
place the blame where it belongs — on Robert Nor- 
wood?” 

The long pent-up tears came at last, and she bur- 

[349] 


Cfte Strength 

ied her face in her hands. ‘‘At least — he would not 
hurt — a woman !” 

“Hurt!” he stormed. “What — has he done but 
— hurt you ! He has blasted your reputation I He 
has put your name upon the lips of ” 

“Hush I Stop I” A sudden, fierce strength broke 
within her. She threw back her head. “You can- 
not talk to me — like this! I have had enough, 
Douglas !” 

“So have I — quite enough!” he retorted. 

She paused for a moment; then went on, more 
calmly. “The pain of your jeers and insults at 
first humbled me to make of love — a beggar, but 
now — the hurt has probed so deep — that it has no 
voice, and even the beggar is shamed !” Her voice 
trembled with excitement. “This morning I came 
crouching to your feet, pleading for forgiveness, 
when in the deep of my soul I knew that I had done 
no wrong. The fires of love are always burning 
for you — in this poor heart — even when you shame 
me with it !” 

“/ — shame — you!” he sneered. 

“I was willing to fight for you, Douglas — for the 
salvation of the man I loved — my home and my 
children !” 

“There is no necessity for it !” he replied. 

“There is necessity — ^but you will not see it! You 
meet me with scorn; you throw my love back into 
my face! I gave myself to you — I put my life in 
your hands; the deed is done and can never be un- 
done! You swore to stand between me and all the 

[350] 


Df tttt Witnk 

sorrows of the world! Is this the way you are 
doing it 

‘^Imaginary sorrows are hard to stand between !” 
he said scathingly. 

‘‘Things come home to us in this life,” she went 
on, stumblingly. “You will one day drink of the 
cup that you have mixed. I would spare you this 
— if I could! You have been so cruel; you have 
heaped dishonor, insult and shame upon me; yet I 
will forgive you because — I love you ” 

He suffered her to finish her speech. Sobs choked 
her utterance at last, and she stood trembling from 
head to foot. 

“If there is one thing that I abominate more than 
anything else on this earth, it is a scene of this 
kind !” His words came out sharp and quick. “It 
must end — right here ! Let us get back to facts and 
sense. Give me those notes.” 

He threw off his velvet gown and started for the 
bedroom door. Desperate, breathless, trembling, 
on the verge of exhaustion, with the last remnant of 
nervous strength, she sprang in front of him and 
stretched her arms between him and the door. 

“What — what — are you g’oing to do?” She 
looked at him with dilated eyes. 

“I am going to take these notes and give them 
to Julia,” he replied in a quiet, even tone. 

“You — you are not — going to her — now?” 

He saw her lips quiver and her slight body sway. 
When he spoke his voice had a kindly, patient note, 
as though he were talking to a willful child. 

“I have an engagement with Julia to-night. Cer- 

[351] 


Cfte Strength 

tainly, there is no just reason why I should break it! 
Go to bed, Margy — you are beside yourself. You 
will see everything very differently to-morrow.’^ 

'Wait — wait — one moment She put her hand 
to her throat — tears sprang into her eyes, but she 
quickly mastered herself. "You say — ^you are going 
— to her — now ; after all that I have told you ! Then 
— then — you shall not return to me!” 

His eyes met hers like steel. There was no sound 
in the room save the ticking of the little brass clock 
on the mantel. A lump of coal in the grate threw 
out a sudden shower of sparks, then crumbled into 
dull gray ashes. The roses stirred and trembled 
with her heavy breathing among the laces on her 
breast. When at last he spoke it was with a bitter 
calmness, with an ironical lifting of the eyebrows. 

"Sol So — you are willing to wreck the whole 
of our future life on this wild illusion?” he asked. 

"I am trying to save my life and yours 1” 

"You are willing to strike at and uproot the very 
foundation of our life together — upon an unjust 
absurdity — are you?” 

"It is not absurdity, Douglas,” she pleaded again. 
"You don’t know what you are saying!” 

He paused ; she made no answer and he went on. 

"Oh, if you only knew how your explosive, dra- 
matic words and attitudes grate upon my very soul ! 
You make of life a farce !” 

"You are making it a torture for me!” she 
sobbed. 

He smiled. "You think I am a cruel villain in 
a cheap play — don’t you? You are a child, Margy 1 

[352] 


S>f tbt (LOeafe 

But my patience has its limit. You lose control of 
yourself over a little thing ” 

“A little thing/' she interrupted. “All heaven 
and earth are made up of little things! To me, 
Douglas, there is nothing so big in the world." 

With a mighty effort she roused her tired mind 
to fresh effort. 

“Upon what does our future life depend? Do 
you expect me to live here in this house, as though 
nothing had happened ? I knew that I was in mor- 
tal conflict — for you — to-night — to hold you — and 
now — I am fighting — to hold — myself 1" 

“Do you think you have held yourself very well?" 
he asked curiously. 

“Ah — ^you don't understand! It is better to sob 
out one's heart in pain than to feel the dull horror 
that would come with the death of love! I have 
caught a glimpse of that to-night ! That emptiness 
would be a deeper hurt than ever your cruelty. I am 
spared this. For I do love you, Douglas, my hus- 
band!" 

“If you love me, prove it now! I am older than 
you ; I should be more patient and gentle. But, you 
must be guided by my maturer judgment!'^ 

“This is a time when your worldly wisdom is 
folly." 

He stared at the bold suddenness of the sug- 
gestion, but went on as though she had not spoken. 

“You must rise above little vexations! I have 
humored you. This has been a childish petulance 
to-night. But you must prove yourself a woman 
now." 


[ 353 ] 


Cfte S)trengt6 

It was the iron egotism of the man demanding 
submission. Margy's face flushed and her haggard 
eyes stared in bitter defiance. 

^'And you — you demand that I stay here — to keep 
up appearances before the world ; with laughing lips 
and bleeding heart ! To be pitied by our friends as 
a poor, little, neglected wife, who could neither hold 
her husband’s love, nor manage his household. The 
title has grown trite. I won’t have it!” 

She turned from him with anger. In her words 
and manner of saying them there was nothing 
childish and he knew it. 

He sighed wearily. ‘T have a right to expect 
you to show reason and good sense, and to put an 
end to this painful scene.” 

Thoughts seemed to be racing through Margy’s 
brain in a whirl of madness. A cold anger rose up 
in her. She almost hated Douglas for his cruelty; 
she hated herself most for suffering it. But what 
good would even righteous anger do her or him 
now? The bitter question was wrung from her by 
her own pain. 

‘‘You will find the conventional is always the most 
becoming,” he remarked drily. 

“Y-yes! The wrecking of a life, the breaking of 
a spirit is the conventional I know!” She turned 
upon him fiercely. “And, so, this is my marriage 
portion. That we must live, held together by law, 
and for the sake of appearances, side by side, face to 
face, with a hideous, grinning skeleton, covered over 
by courtesies, by reason and good sense. That I 
must slowly die, while everything within me is 

[354] 


HDf tt)t mtau 

clamoring for life; die the wretched death of fear 
— fear ! That I stay here, night after night, alone — 
always alone.” 

‘Tt’s your own fault — you know it!” he retorted. 

*T cannot leave the babies.” 

'‘You will not!” 

“No — I will not ! I don’t want to ! But I want my 
husband at home! While you, with that woman! 
Oh, it is a crime* against nature to expect this of 
me ! I am no graven image, and I am no coward !” 

Douglas had made several futile attempts to inter- 
rupt, but her words fell over each other in an ex- 
cess of bitterness and pain. 

“For the sake of decency, we will stop this now ! 
You make things lurid with your flights of South- 
ern passion! You must listen to me, Margy, and 
obey me. I exact nothing of you but what my duty 
commands.” 

“And that is, that I live, and live, and live a lie !” 

Margy’s brain had grown very heavy with the 
long repetition of painful thoughts. In the hard 
battle of the weak against the strong she felt her 
own poor defenses gathered together and hurled 
back upon her. 

Douglas wheeled suddenly and disappeared 
through the doorway. It took him but a few mo- 
ments to complete his toilet. When he re-entered 
the little sitting room, she was standing exactly as 
he had left her. A cold, passive stillness settled 
over her heart ; she seemed frozen to the spot. Her 
eyes followed him to the door. He turned and 
spoke to her — not unkindly, with a studied courtesy 

[355] 


Cjje ©ttengtj) 

and a conscious air of adjusting his back to new 
burdens. 

‘‘Believe me, Margy, after a night of sleep and 
rest you will be amazed at your own action to- 
night.'* 

“And you are — agoing?" she asked, in a voice 
parched and wan as a burned-out fire. 

“Yes. Good-night." 

She felt for her spray of roses; they were with- 
ered — dead. She crushed them in her hand as 
she staggered across the floor. Sharp thorns 
pierced the tender flesh; drops of blood trickled 
down and stained the lacy folds of her white dress. 
Blindly she groped her way, until she threw her 
body across the bed, and her face fell among the 
curls of the sleeping child. 

When Douglas reached the street below he 
stopped abruptly. Once he half turned to retrace 
his steps, then he bared his head for a moment and 
let the cold air blow over his flushed, burning face. 
What a scene! How could he go to Julia Farwell 
now ! He knew that he would be humiliated in her 
presence. How could he force himself to unfold, 
before the fine, strong intelligence of the woman, 
his own wife’s narrow, unreasonable littleness! But 
— he would not go back! Margy must be taught 
a lesson — it must be a stern one. He wanted to 
be alone — to think ! 

Across the bridge he stepped into a corner drug 
store and ’phoned a brief message to Margy that 
he would not be home until breakfast. He scarcely 
heard her voice — it was faint and indistinct. 

[356] 


ffl)f tbt mtak 

When he stepped on the pavement a curious cloud 
floated before his eyes. He staggered like a 
wounded man. It seemed to him now that he had 
known that this hour would come to him for many 
months, that he had been merely fighting it off 
while expecting its sure reckoning. It was, after 
all, the most natural outcome, the most fitting de- 
nouement to the whole miserable business — to the 
farcical comedy of his married life. He straight- 
ened himself, set his hat squarely on his head, and 
turned his steps toward the open country. 

At six o’clock the next morning he dragged list- 
less, weary feet over the bridge of the Hague. His 
face was gaunt with the night’s agony. But, in his 
bodily exhaustion, he felt that a new courage had 
been born. There would be no further discussions 
— no vulgar scenes ; Margy must be made to realize 
her duty — and to perform it ! 

He mounted the steps of his home and fumbled 
with the latch-key. The house was still and dark. 
He groped his way through the hall and toward the 
dining-room, turning mechanically as he remem- 
bered that there was no servant downstairs. The 
house was strangely still. On the floor of Margy ’s 
sitting-room he picked up a little worn-out shoe of 
Preston’s and threw it into the waste-basket and 
opened the door of her bed-room. The first object 
that caught his eye was a strip of white paper pinned 
around the mouthpiece of the telephone by her bed. 
On it was a single line, written in a large, firm 
hand : 

‘T have gone — back home. Margy.” 

[ 357 ] 



BOOK III, 




I 


CHAPTER I 


TRIUMPH 

^1 ^HE bunch of pink roses lay withered on the 
white counterpane; the air was filled with 
their heavy perfume. Douglas stood still for a full 
minute, then his jaw closed firmly and the square 
chin unconsciously thrust itself forward. 

So, she had left him! With no undue haste, but 
with calm habits of composure peculiar to him in 
moments of stress and pain, he went about prepara- 
tions for a morning bath. 

He groomed his body with leisure, painstaking 
care, in the meantime wrapping about himself an 
armour of self-pity and bitterness, which quickly 
merged into fierce anger. There was a determined 
finality about his movements ; he rearranged his own 
intimate effects on his chiffonier with a scrupulous 
neatness that always marked his personal habits. 

When he had finished he passed his hand over 
his eyes. Could things ever be the same again? 
Something had been done to the fabric of his life 
and its very roots tom asunder. 

Peremptorily he summoned Louise over the tele- 
phone and paced back and forth the length of the 

[361]. 


Cfte @)ttettgtf) 

library as he waited for her. He threw open a 
window and leaned out, scanning the stretch of 
street between the rows of maples and the long 
arched bridge over the Hague. A little launch 
glided merrily through the clear rippling water in 
front of the house. A fresh breeze wafted its 
cheery clug-clug, clug-clug across the open space 
and a long, slender foaming wake spread itself over 
the surface and rolled toward him in dancing 
ripples. The next moment the same breeze came 
ladened with the stifling smell of burning naphtha. 
He threw down the window and continued his walk- 
ing back and forth. 

He had waited only a few minutes when Louise 
arrived, breathless and flushed. 

‘What is it, Douglas? What is the matter?” 

“Margy has gone,” he stated briefly. 

“Gone!” Her hands dropped to her side. Doug- 
las made an imperative gesture. 

“The word is simple — plain; she has gone back 
to Glen Haven. The fact speaks for itself ; we will 
not discuss it. You — ^you will come here now — and 
stay?” 

“Why, of course, Douglas; I will do whatever 
I can for you,” she faltered. 

“Then move here at once — to-day. You can oc- 
cupy the rooms in the rear.” 

Louise did not move, but continued to stare 
stupidly. 

“But, Margy ” 

He picked up a long silver paper knife and 
drummed on the table. 

[362] 


fl)f tfie mtak 

‘‘Don't speak of her to me! She has left me; 
isn't that enough?" 

“But, it may be that you misjudge her; she " 

Douglas turned upon her with a quick flash of 
anger as he threw down the knife. 

“Don't talk of her, I tell you! I won’t hear 
you ! She has brought indignity and dishonor upon 
me, and dragged her own skirts in the mire. She 
must know well what people will say. Get the serv- 
ants you need. Julia will help you." 

Louise stood irresolute for a moment, then she 
unpinned her hat. 

“You will tell Julia? I left her in great distress." 

Before she had finished he had opened the front 
door. 

“I will tell her." 

The sun had darkened in sudden shadow and a 
fine mist filled the air. Douglas paused on the 
marble steps outside and looked gloomily upon 
the arched street and the black water that lay still 
and deep under the bridge. He did not hear or see 
Julia's limousine glide toward him from the oppo- 
site direction, until the chauffeur, pompous in all 
the splendor of executive livery, swept the car 
with a wide, graceful movement toward the house 
and stopped close to the curbing directly in front 
of him. Instantly Julia's anxious face appeared 
at the open window. Her experienced, eager eye 
took in at a glance every detail of his attitude. 
He felt her gaze upon him. 

“I feared that something was wrong. I could not 
wait another moment!" 

[363] 


Cfie Sttengti) 

Douglas opened the door of her car and stood 
with his hand upon it. He looked tired and old. 
A sudden pity shot through her heart. 

‘‘Will you come in?” he asked simply; “there 
is no one but Louise in the house.” 

For a moment Julia stopped breathing; she 
dropped her eyes; rich color mounted her cheeks. 

“My — poor — friend! You come with me!” Her 
hand trembled as she drew him firmly toward her 
and made room on the wide seat beside her. “Now, 
tell me.” 

“There is little to tell. Margy went back to Glen 
Haven on this morning’s boat!” 

Julia feigned surprise. “Why — Glen Haven — 
now ?” she asked, holding the eagerness of her voice 
in check. 

He sighed wearily. “The reasons are compli- 
cated and — violent.” He settled back into the cor- 
ner of the seat and gave no heed as the machine 
moved off. 

Julia looked at the side of his head resting 
against the leather cushion. Her own face was in- 
scrutable. It was a moment of acute suspense with 
her. When her eyes sought his face she began to 
tremble. But it was only for a moment, then they 
grew hard with quick calculation. 

“Something has happened. I trust it’s nothing 
very serious!” she said. 

He did not stir, but continued to gaze out of the 
window. 

“You know that it is! You always know things 
— as they are !” 

[364] 


tbe mtak 

‘‘Yes?” She quickly checked a too eager tone. 
Unexpectedly their eyes met. Douglas looked 
away. Julia Farwell knew when to speak and when 
to keep silent. He must move in his own way. At 
length he began. 

“The truth of the business, M-Margy has gone 
all to pieces under the awful worry and eternal 
bother about servants, and babies, and all the 
blamed paraphernalia we call living.” 

Julia’s eyes flashed and a quick retort trembled 
on her lips, but she closed them firmly. He could 
feel her expectancy in the silence that followed. 

“Living!” she repeated musingly. He felt her 
quick intelligence flashing out to meet his, as the 
same scene protruded itself before the mind of 
each, and each knew it. It was a scene that had 
burned itself into her brain never to be effaced. 

It was the night at Glen Haven in which he had 
first confessed his love for Margy. She could see 
the moonlight lying on the floor; how she had al- 
ways hated moonlight since that night. Every word 
that he had said at that time was as clear in her 
mind now as when he had uttered them. She could 
see him standing before her in his superb, virile 
strength; the words had been as so many stab- 
thrusts of a dagger into her very heart. “I want to 
live — smash the mould — ^make another, Margy is — 
Margy, that’s all I want her to be — she was created 
to be my mate, prepared for me before the begin- 
ning of time. She will take me out of the dull 
circle of existence; she will bring peace, content- 
ment, happiness — what more can marriage mean, 

[365] 


Cftc 

what more can man want ? IVe smothered my soul 
too long; I love her — I love her; I want to live — 
I want to live ” 

The woman felt a rare exhilaration creep over 
her; warm blood surged in her brain; a sharp taste 
was in her mouth like the bitter sweet of green 
herbs and wild berries. 

“What is — living?’’ she heard him ask listlessly. 

“It is to attain the richest fullness of being. For 
some it is to dream,” she replied. 

“What is — living?” he repeated, the incidents of 
his life for the last three years flashing quickly one 
by one across his mind in shifting panorama. Mar- 
riage, birth, death — the illusion of desire — the dis- 
enchantment of possession — ^the dream that was 
lost! 

Julia felt something of this trend of thought, 
and she was silent. Her speech was to his inner 
rather than his outer man. It was a sort of com- 
radeship that had been very dear to her in the old 
days. The fact that she could once more feel this 
deep communion of spirit, bespoke an understand- 
ing possible only when her power over him was 
complete. Ah! was the ideal of her life near at 
hand? Her struggle — all the sordid, hideous, un- 
worthy devices, had not been in vain, if he could 
be brought back to himself and to her! Suddenly 
he roused and drew the notes from his pocket. 

Julia’s instant attention was arrested. She 
dropped her eyes to hide a quick shock of surprise 
and dismay. He began at the beginning and stated 
cold, blunt facts one by one as Margy had related 

[366] 


©f t\ft mtak 

them to him. Following the line of his nature, he 
went directly to the heart of his trouble. He fin- 
ished with a very frank and honest apology. 

‘‘But it seems, after all, that it was I who brought 
this upon you,'' she said. 

He looked her full in the face. “What is the 
cause, God knows, I don't! But I do know that 
you are not," was his reply. 

“And I know — that you are not!" she answered. 
“These notes belong to Maggie," she went on care- 
lessly tucking them into her hand bag. “I will give 
them to her." 

“One is addressed to you," he suggested. 
“Y-yes. Would you care to read it?" 

“Certainly not!" 

i They had reached the open country by this time 
and were running smoothly along the boulevard. 

“I cannot tell you how sorry I am for you," she 
said simply. “But — oh, Douglas, your friends who 
love you, have feared this crisis for months. You 
are just beginning to get a little of the sand out of 
your eyes." 

She spoke guardedly. She was feeling her way. 
“Sand?" 

“Sand — of romance!" 

He pondered. “Would you mind telling me just 
what you mean?" 

' The woman hesitated. Then she leaned over 
toward him and her face gazed steadily into his. 
;Her great eyes overflowed with sympathetic tender- 
ness. The sweet soothing odor of her garments 
filled his nostrils. 


[367] 


Cfie Strengtl) 

‘‘Must I be very frank? I do not wish to of- 
fend.” She spoke slowly and her voice vibrated 
with long-suppressed yearning. 

“You will not offend me, Julia. Go on.” 

The atmosphere of the little car was packed with 
possibilities. Had the hour of her triumph come 
at last? 

She began speaking slowly. “The scene of last 
night, which you described to me, was sure to come, 
Douglas, sooner or later. Southern innate princi- 
ples of life are entirely different from ours. They 
speak a different language, they live on a different 
plane, they see by other lights. You fell in love with 
Margy Preston’s youth, her beauty, with the way 
her hair curled around her ears. To be young and 
beautiful is much, but in this day, for a man like 
yourself, something more than a costume is re- 
quired.” Her words came slowly with a touch of 
languid amusement. 

“You are beating about the bush, Julia!” He 
lifted his head with a quick gesture. 

“By sand of romance, I simply meant that you 
are awakening at last I” she went on more definitely. 
“The mad, wild infatuation that possessed you for 
this girl had died, as such things always die! You 
experienced a short ecstasy, but this little romance 
has ended in confusion, and dull emptiness. What 
you want now, what your real life demands, she can 
never give to you. But I didn’t think that she 
would leave you, that she would cross swords with 
the family tradition, that marriage is always a per- 

[368] 


®f tfte mtak 

manent institution. Couldn’t you have prevented 
this?” 

“It was a painful scene between us,” he said. 
“I tried to reason with her — it was no use! I re- 
minded her of all that you have done for her — be- 
ginning with your noble gift of Glen Haven.” 

“What did she say?” 

He flushed. “She said it was not a clean gift. 
She is possessed of the idea that you have always 
hated her, and everything I said only made matters 
worse.” 

“I suppose she is jealous of me,” she replied 
lightly. 

“You have spoiled her, of course. Yet I am sur- 
prised that even her weak nature could show such 
base ingratitude as to treat your honor lightly — to 
deliberately choose a selfish, cowardly part!” 

“Margy’s nature is as sudden and violent as a 
squall on South River!” he replied. “It comes up 
quietly, and suddenly bursts into fierce, boiling 
wrath.” 

“Just like a child!” she said. “But the point is 
now — she has gone! What are you going to do 
about it!” 

“I don’t know !” he answered. 

“Ah, Douglas, I have watched your struggle 
these years and my heart has bled with the pity of 
it. I knew that she could never satisfy your life. 
But she was young. I tried to help her.” 

“Yes, I know, I know.” 

“I trusted that she would grow, that she would 

[369] 


C!)e %)ttcngt& 

try to fit herself into a companion worthy of you, 
but she hasn’t.” 

‘'She says that she can’t readjust herself to 
things as they are.” 

Julia’s mind suddenly drew all growing inten- 
tions to one sharp point of resolution. 

“That’s just it. She can’t, because she won’t. 
She has a little mind. She wants to live a little 
life in a little circle, as a woman lived a hundred 
years ago, with no interest outside her own family. 
This is impossible. The world has grown. Ah, 
believe me, Douglas, it is better that she should 
leave you now before your own life is utterly 
warped and ruined.” 

It was a daring speech, and Julia knew it. But 
she never lost touch for an instant to the temper 
of his mind. She felt her way cautiously and made 
bold and sure progress. 

“There seems nothing left. Every illusion is 
destroyed,” he said listlessly. 

“Count it a mercy that the awakening was forced 
upon you before it was too late.” 

“Too late?” 

“Yes,” she replied quickly. “The best years of 
your life are ahead of you. Ah, Douglas, I know 
that in the loneliness of the night, the loneliness 
of your soul has often stood confessed. You have 
yearned with great longing for a kindred spirit, 
comprehending, sympathizing. Margy! She was 
sweet, a lovable toy, but her world of thought and 
ideas are as alien from the understanding of your 
life as if she lived on another sphere. You’ve 

T370] 


ffl)f tfie mtak 

longed for freedom, and unless I am much mis- 
taken, she has also,” she ended dryly. 

“What do you mean?” he asked. 

“You know that she has placed herself open to 
criticism, gossip, slander?” He looked at her 
keenly. “It has been hinted to me,” he said. 

With skilled touch she slowly enveloped him in 
a dense mist of doubt and suspicion. Poisonous 
suggestions sank deep into his mind and revolved 
there. She leaned back luxuriously against the 
cushioned seat. 

“Consider a few cold facts,” she went on. “Rob- 
ert Norwood has been Margy’s lover all her life. 
They have much in common. The loyalty and 
treachery of Southern men in matters of love and 
sentiment are known everywhere. They were very 
poor; it was impossible for them to marry. You 
appear — the placid and beautiful at Glen Haven 
touches you. You fell in love with a civilization of 
a past century; it centered itself in this girl.” 

“Do you think that?” he asked earnestly. 

“I know it. You are married. She is happy, 
excited, amused for a time. There could never 
have been a real bond of union between you two. 
But between Robert and Margy that bond was 
never broken. His devotion to her has been un- 
tiring — hers — oh, well, you know how quick she 
has always been to defend him, to allow no hint 
against him to go unchallenged. Your unques- 
tioning faith in her has been marvelous — the sub- 
ject of constant comment.” 

At first these subtle suggestions brushed lightly 

[371]: 


Clje %»treii0tl) 

through his mind, but they left their impress. He 
listened in stoic silence to the sly insinuations of 
gossip she let fall here and there, even suggesting 
that hidden scandal lay at the bottom of Margy’s 
action. 

She felt the stimulus of the old power over him 
urging her on. Oh, she must save him at any 
price. She had sacrificed too much, not to win 
now. Thus she concentrated her dominating mind 
and will upon him, turning, shaping and moulding 
his tortured brain, until for the first time he saw 
Margy — through Julia’s eyes. ! It was as if a great 
searchlight had suddenly flooded her soul; he was 
aghast at its revelation. He gripped his hands 
hard. 

''My God! My God!” he exclaimed under his 
breath. "What have I done with my life? What 
must I do ?” 

Her eyes glistened. "It is very sitnple. She left 
you deliberately, didn’t she?” 

"Yes.” 

"Then — let her stay. That’s all.” 

He sat up straight. "Oh, but I can’t do that. 

I must do my duty.” 

"What is your duty?” i 

He fell back into the seat. "I don’t know. I | 
don’t know.” 

By this time they had reached the entrance of 
the old Virginia Exposition grounds. The gate- ^ 
keeper confronted them, smoking a pipe, as he fum- 1 
bled in his sagging pockets for the change to the ’ 
piece of money Douglas handed him. He was in A 

[372] ; 


s>t tbt mtau 

keeping with his surroundings, as neglected and 
forsaken and tottering as the crumbling plaster of 
the once resplendent War-Path. A Masonic pin 
near the frayed edge of his coat bespoke a defiant 
challenge to respectability even amid the fumes of 
stale whisky that enveloped him. 

“Be keerful ef you go down on the pier. Bet- 
ter git out en walk, there’s hollow places that’s 
settled like,” he cautioned amiably. 

The graven image at the wheel nodded his head 
and whirled along through the slippery gravel. 

“It was apropos that you should bring me here,” 
Douglas remarked with grim humor, his eyes rest- 
ing moodily on the decaying boards and blackened 
timbers of the Inside Inn. In the swift, passing 
glance, she felt that the quick dissolution was a 
deserved destiny of conscious failure. “To view 
the rotting sham-work of this stupendous monu- 
ment of folly, to meditate upon ruined lives, shat- 
tered hopes, waste — decay.” 

“But there was gain to some one,” she quickly 
returned. 

“No doubt!.” 

As the machine curved itself into the broad 
roadway of the water front, the wide, glistening ex- 
panse of Hampton Roads stretched itself before 
them in its never-failing beauty. At the entrance 
of the long pier, profiting by the suggestion of the 
gatekeeper, Julia spoke a quick word into the little 
mouthpiece beside her, and the machine slowly 
stopped. 

They went in silence down the long plank walk. 

I373] 


C{)e ^tcengtl) 

Julia turned her head from side to side, as if drink- 
ing in and enjoying elusive visions of departed 
glory, but Douglas kept his eyes riveted on the 
track of huge black nails that studded the boards — 
their rust-circled paths running ahead of him in 
a long, straight line. At the end of the pier they 
leaned against the tower, facing the high arch of 
broad steps connecting the two flanks. They were 
isolated in silence, save for the plaintive cry of an 
occasional sea gull, and the gentle murmur of the 
waves, as they broke against the piles below them. 

With the point of his umbrella Douglas touched 
a projecting edge of thin plaster that encircled the 
foundation of the tower. Instantly a large sheet 
of loosened veneer fell at his feet, revealing a net- 
work of hollow foundation upon which it rested. 

Julia laughed. ‘‘Like so many of our dreams, 
Douglas — if we reach out our hand to touch them 
they crumble and fall.” 

“You advise me to do nothing — now?” He 
spoke with passionate self-control. She saw the 
agony in his eyes, the tragic droop of his figure. 

“Isn’t it best to wait quietly and see what she 
intends to do? Of course, I am eager to make any 
amends that may lie in my power. I will write 
to her at once. I will go to see her, if you wish me 
to.” 

The tone of intimate care reached Douglas’ heart 
more directly than her words. 

“You would do this for me?” 

“That or anything to help you. 
good, she may not listen to me.’* 

[374] 


It may do no 


fl)f tbt mtnk 

‘‘But you will go?” He eagerly grasped at this 
suggestion. “Then— then I can know for a cer- 
tainty, and will be free to take decided action.” 

Her eyes sparkled. “Does it depend on that? 
You know in this, as in all things, I am on your 
side, that I am striving only for your best happi- 
ness — in the end. I will write to her first, then if 
necessary I will go and see her. But you must be 
prepared for the worst. You must rise above this 
thing. If I fail, you will know that you have done 
your duty. You will get a fresh grip on life. Grasp 
a larger vision and forge your way back to real 
living in a real world. You have dreamed your 
dream, and as is the fate of all visionaries, you 
have awakened — that’s all. You must now reach 
for an ideal that can become to you an actual, 
splendid, living power. Will you do this?” 

“Yes— yes.” 

Her black eyes flashed. 

“It has been difficult to fit a little — Southern but- 
terfly-princess into a mould that wouldn’t smash. 
Hasn’t it?” 

“Don’t,” he cried brokenly as he raised haggard 
eyes to her face. But he saw there only the light of 
sympathetic understanding. 

A great confidence came to him, a feeling that 
here upon this woman, who knew the very depths 
of his heart’s longing, he could rely, if all other 
faiths were shaken. 

“A Princess,” he repeated vaguely. Then he 
turned impulsively to her and caught her hand. 

[375] 


Cfte Sittcngtft 

'^You are a queen, Julia, a queen among women. 
Would to God I had always known it” 

The woman felt her heart beat in every vein of 
her body; she stood trembling from head to foot, 
while wave after wave of exultant triumph passed 
over her. Ah, well. At a great price had she won 
that praise. But — great God ! She had won it. 

The heavy smell of the salt air of the sea filled' 
their nostrils. It breathed of freedom — of isola- 
tion. In the East the far line of the horizon ran 
clear-cut, distinct, where the emerald water met the 
blue of the sky. It seemed to beckon them, with 
alluring fantasy. A dreamy mist confused Doug- 
las’ brain. A strange peace settled over the man’s 
heart. Julia was satisfied, content. The past, with' 
its bitterness, receded; the future stretched before 
her, filled with certainty and sure fore-knowledge 
of a great happiness awaiting them both. 

On the day following she wrote Margy a care- 
fully worded letter, expressing, in terms of pro- 
found regret, the part she had unwittingly played 
in bringing about so serious and vital an estrange- 
ment. She humbly asked for forgiveness and 
expressed herself ready to make all amends in her 
power, ending with many assurances of her con- 
tinued loyalty and friendship. The letter met with 
Douglas’ unqualified approval. The days went by 
and Margy’s silence was unbroken; his increasing 
anger was gradually replaced by a certain compla- 
cency and grim content. 

Julia watched the change with exultant satisfac- 
tion. She grasped the entire situation in her capa- 

[376] 


©f tj)c mtak 

ble hands and held it there. What had to be done, 
she had done promptly and wisely. She foresaw 
possibilities, forestalled accidents, held off inquisi- 
tive gossips with a thoroughness that amazed and 
gratified Douglas. She gave up her own apart- 
ment at Louise’s entreaty to make her home with 
them. The bodily, creature comforts of his home, 
under their management, was a source of surprising 
delight to Douglas. No graces of person or charms 
of manner or resources of intellect could have called 
forth his admiration as effectively at this time as 
the display of prosaic executive capacity. Julia knew 
this ; so she let him feel her constant patient watch- 
fulness for his comfort and happiness hovering 
over him. 

During the month following, Douglas spent all 
of his leisure hours with her, in the newly formed 
relation, which adjusted itself naturally to the 
changed conditions of his life. She was established 
as his guiding star, and was leading him cautiously 
but steadily, without effort, to the consummation of 
her own secret, cherished desire. 

Her excited brain teemed with happy anticipa- 
tion; the old look of anxiety and perplexity was 
gone. She grew younger every day. The goal was 
just before her — almost within reach of her hand, 
and she could wait now, in patient content. Her 
brain as well as her heart was stimulated by happi- 
ness. At times it seemed to her that her secret must 
be read in the very glow and radiance of her face. 
Her manner was gracious, irresistible. Out of her 
abundant energy and determination, with the driv- 

[377] 


Ci)e %ittengt{) 

ing, dominant force of personality, she won admira^ 
tion from all who came under her charm. Within 
their immediate circle as she increased in power 
the tide turned as surely and forcefully against 
Margy, until even Louise was forced to admit that 
Julia had been correct in her first estimate of her. 


flD{ tfie sajeafe 


CHAPTER II 

VIOLETS AND JONQUILS 

T^OUGLAS’ business had prospered during the 
month of Margy’s absence. It was at Julia’s 
suggestion that he had mailed her a generous check, 
and was neither angered nor surprised that she 
made no acknowledgment of it. Alfred Mayer 
conveyed the news to him during the second week 
that Robert Norwood was on a visit to South River. 
It made little impress ; for the time he was content 
to drift, to raise no question, force no issue. 

This complacency of attitude was in marked evi- 
dence as he sauntered leisurely down Main Street 
with Mayer at the close of a busy day in early 
April. They were chatting quietly and content- 
edly. In making a sudden, sharp turn toward a ci- 
gar store Douglas stumbled awkwardly and fell 
against the end of a florist stand. A large glass 
i jar, filled with bunches of flowers, fell with a crash 
' to the pavement. He laughed as he stooped to pick 
' them up. 

“Now, if that had been you, Mayer, I should 

[have said that you were ” 

I “Drunk!” Mayer finished the sentence that had 

[379] 


Cfie %»tren0tft 

been cut short. Douglas was staring in incredulous 
amazement and horror at a long painted sign be- 
hind the jars of flowers : 

“Glen Haven Violets and Jonquils 
For Sale.^^ 

The blood surged in his face and his eyes blazed. 

“She seems to be making a study of ways and 
means of humiliating me.” His voice was thick 
and hoarse. 

“Great Scott!” Mayer ejaculated under his 
breath as he caught Douglas’ arm. “Don’t stand 
there. People are watching you!” He almost 
dragged him into the shadow of the doorway. 
“Wait a minute, I’ll ” 

“No — oh — no!” Douglas pushed him aside. 
Squaring his broad shoulders he walked with erect 
head into the florist’s shop and paid for the injured 
violets and broken jar. 

At the curbing he turned the bunches of purple 
fragrance in his hand, looked at them curiously, 
then he threw them into the gutter. His lip curled, 
he laughed unpleasantly. 

“And I — bought them.” 

Mayer locked his hand through Douglas’ arm 
and they started up the street in the direction of 
Colonial Arch. 

“It’s a beastly shame,” Mayer remarked in a low 
voice. “There’s something back of it, but it’ll come 
to light. I never did a mean thing in my life that 
wasn’t found out sooner or later. Nothing is hid 

[380] 


s>t tht 

always. And everything turns out for the best — 
you can bet your bottom dollar on that. There’s 
purpose in every incident in this old rotten world.” 

Gaining enthusiasm from the glow of his own 
expanding thought, clumsy in a blind effort to help 
his friend, Mayer floundered on in rambling talk. 

‘Xook at that old Merrimac anchor,” pointing 
to a rusty, twisted mass of iron on display in the 
window of an antique shop. ‘Tt waited obligingly 
at the bottom of the sea for twenty-four years until 
the Virginia Exposition was arranged for it. Go 
slow, Douglas — we’re all on your side. And Miss 
Farwell — what a woman she is! She tells you, as 
I do — to go slow. Never cut a knot until you’re 
sure it can’t be unraveled. But, when you’re sure — 
dead sure — then cut it.” 

Julia met them at the door. Douglas ignoring 
the presence of Mayer suddenly took both her hands 
in his and looked long and searchingly into her eyes. 
She turned a trifle pale, but she met his gaze un- 
flinchingly. 

want you to go to Glen Haven in the morning, 
and do what you promised me you would do. Will 
you?” he asked at length. 

“I will,” she smiled, her great eyes close to his 
face. ‘‘But— if I fail ” 

“Mayer says that knots that cannot be untangled 
must be cut,” he answered, loosing her hands and 
turning abruptly away. 

“Yes,” she murmured between slightly parted 
lips. 

“And I say further,” Mayer interposed, “that if 

[381] 


Cfte 

anybody or any power on this earth can untangle 
this problem you can/* 

“At least I can try,** was the gracious rejoinder 
as she led the way into the dining-room. 


2Df tfte 2Seak 


CHAPTER III 

SANCTUARY 

next morning found Julia on her way to 
Glen Haven. As the steamer Bobjack cleared 
the Graydon dock, and pointed its long, sharp nose 
toward Old Point and the bay beyond, she looked at 
a jeweled watch and calmly calculated the tedious 
hours of boredom ahead of her, for it would be 
afternoon before she would reach her destination. 

With a long, swinging walk, she made several 
turns around the deck in search of a quiet place, 
sheltered from the sun, and beyond reach of the 
noises of children and crying infants that seemed 
to fill the cabin. 

The place she finally selected was on the leeward 
side; the wind was stiff and the deck was moist 
and wet from dashing spray. For hours she sat 
there; an open book lay unnoticed in her lap, for 
her eyes wandered over the waters toward the 
horizon in the East, where the emerald sea met the 
blue of the sky. Across its long line she again 
wove her secret tapestry of dreams. Now and 
then her eyes would soften and her lips part as 
the vision pleased, then again her face grew hard 

[383] 


CIbe ©trengtfe 

and the lines about her mouth straightened, as she 
attempted to formulate the approaching interview 
with Margy. She felt that there was really no 
need to think it out; it would be very simple and 
easy. She could trust entirely to the inspiration 
of the moment. Margy had never really opposed 
her in any particular; face to face with her once 
more, she would be as plastic as ever. There was 
only one sharp regret : the enforced absence of two 
days necessary for the stupid trip. 

As the boat neared the pier at Glen Haven she 
stood by the railing on the lower deck and looked 
idly at the little group gathered on the wharf. 
Presently she recognized Margy and Robert stand- 
ing on the furthest end. ‘A suit case rested at his 
feet; he was laughing and playing with Preston, 
who was in his arms, clinging to his neck. Julia 
stepped back and watched them. Margy was lean- 
ing against the wall of the freight house, giving 
direction to a man who was labeling long baskets 
of jonquils and violets that were placed near, ready 
for shipment. As the boat swung to, Robert low- 
ered Preston and picked up his suit case. Then his 
eyes swept the deck and he saw Julia. She came to 
the edge of the rail again and smiled and waved 
her hand. Instantly he bowed and raised his hat, 
but his face betrayed quick annoyance. 

She watched him curiously, shrewdly calculating 
what his next move would be. He knew that she 
was watching him, and what he finally did was ex- 
actly what she had anticipated that he would do. 
He disappeared through the door of the little wait- 

[384] 


t>e tbt mealt 

mg room and returned without the suit case. He 
came up to Margy and Julia saw Margy’s face 
turn white at a whispered word. Then he took 
Preston by the hand and they stood together wait- 
ing until the gangplank was placed and the passen- 
gers filed slowly off. 

Julia came confidently toward them with oub 
stretched hand and smiling face. 

*T know that you were not expecting me, 
Margy,” she greeted pleasantly. 

‘‘N — No — I was not expecting you,” was the 
quiet reply. 

Robert tried to save the situation from conspicu- 
ous awkwardness and comment, while Preston 
pulled frantically at his hand. 

*‘Have you baggage?” he asked politely. ‘‘Only 
this? All right — let me carry it for you.” 

“Hurry— hurry— Unkl Wobert ” 

Robert bent low over the boy. “That’s all right. 
Uncle Robert isn’t going to-day.” 

Preston jumped up and down in his little blue 
rompers — his smooth, prim curls breaking into a 
tangled mass. 

“No ? Hoo— ee— I— so glad !” 

Julia and Margy walked down the long, narrow 
wharf with Robert and Preston close behind them. 
Julia talked in a vivacious manner, and Margy lis- 
I tened in silence. But when they had reached the 
i mainland, she turned suddenly and looked Julia 
full in the face as she said in a distinct voice. 

“I am sorry that we have no accommodations 
I now for guests at Glen Haven.” 

[385] 


C!)c 

For a moment Julia’s poise wavered and her lips 
curled disdainfully, but it was only for a moment. 
Robert looked at Margy in amazement, but he said 
nothing. Julia took cognizance, however, that her 
move was a surprise to him. 

'^Oh — that is of small matter,” she replied gra- 
ciously. “My object was not to make a visit, but 
to talk things over with you. Robert, if you will 
give me my grip I will walk up the beach to Sea- ' 
side, and come over to Glen Haven directly after 
dinner.” 

Margy’s eyes did not leave her face; there was ' 
not a quiver of an eyelash. 

“We — we are always busy after dinner at Glen 
Haven,” was her determined rejoinder. “If you 
have anything to say to me, say it here and now.” 

Julia was distinctly baffled by the repeated af- 
front. She laughed aloud at the absurdity of say- 
ing the things that she had come to say in so incon- 
gruous a manner, standing in the middle of the 
road, holding her grip and umbrella in one hand : 
and her skirts in the other, while Robert and Pres- i 
ton stood like sentinels on guard. 

There was no flicker of a smile on Margy’s coun- i 
tenance, however. When Julia finally spoke again i 
it was in serious intonation. 

“It is your duty and my right that you should ' 
hear me!” she said. 

“I will hear you — now.” Then, as if voicing an 
afterthought, she added, “I have no secrets from i 
Robert. You can speak easily before him.” | 

“Indeed!” Julia shrugged her shoulders and i 

[386] 


©f tfie mtak 

turned away. *'On second consideration, I find 
that I have nothing to say. I see that I have made 
a mistake in coming. I had hoped — but, oh, well 
— no matter ” 

As she walked away from them Margy turned 
in the opposite direction toward Glen Haven. There 
was a drawn, haggard look about her face, a quiver 
of her lips, that showed the strain the interview 
had cost her. Robert had a mad desire to pick her 
up and carry her as a child, but instead he made 
a commonplace suggestion. 

‘‘Walk near the water where the sand is wet, it 
will be easier. I’ll run back and get my suit case 
and the mail and join you presently.” 

By the time he reached the house she was seated 
on a broken bench under a magnolia tree on the 
lawn. She had turned in the neck of her gingham 
dress and rolled her sleeves up to the elbow, reveal- 
ing a rounded arm, brown as a iDerry ; she fanned 
herself with her hat, and watched Robert’s approach 
with dry, burning eyes. Along the fence at the 
I farther side of the lawn hundreds of daffodils and 
1 jonquils blazed abroad the glory of Spring. Be- 
‘ yond the fence a sea of purple violets lifted their 
‘ modest heads. 

Preston rested against her a few minutes, then 
‘ he ran around the side of the house toward the 
, kitchen. The soft, salt breeze with its mingled 
I fragrance touched her hair. There was a loud 
! chirping of robins in the foliage above her and the 
: cheeping of tiny wrens that were building in the 
I porch. 


Cfie ©trcngtl) 

“It was good of you to stand by me, Robert/’ 
she spoke gratefully as he came near her. 

“I will stand by you always, dear,” his voice was 
so kind that she smiled with exaggerated lightness 
to keep back the tears that lay very close behind the 
surface of her shining eyes. He leaned forward 
from an old chair that he had drawn up beside her 
and took her hand. The gaze that her eyes en- 
countered showed her a soul tender to the hurt of 
a woman; but he spoke to her as if she were a 
child. 

“Wasn’t it a trifle strange, that you should re- 
fuse Miss Farwell the hospitality of Glen Haven?” 

A packet of letters he had given her fell un- 
heeded into her lap. It was against Margy’s na- 
ture to be rude to any one. 

“You — you mean because she bought it and gave 
it back to me? Y — yes — but there was nothing 
else to do.” 

“If you had given her a chance, might she not 
have explained everything?” he suggested quietly. 
“Think what it would have meant to you.” 

Margy looked hopelessly away. “There is noth- 
ing she can say to me, nothing that I care to hear. 
What she does, or is, does not concern me now.” 

“I understand that Maggie positively stated that 
Miss Farwell did not write those notes,” he per- 
sisted. 

“A lie is nothing to Maggie,” Margy replied with 
a tinge of bitter sadness; “she will say anything 
that Julia wants her to say. In her fury with me, 
however, she threw it at me that her working for 

[388] 


©f tbt mtnk 

me was only a trick. Oh, Robert, there isn’t any 
use to talk about it. I thought that I had escaped 
from the struggle, the confusion of it all. I was 
happy to be here — at peace, in my own place. Why 
should she come here to disturb me?” 

*'She will not come again,” he replied. His 
quick sense of humor was submerged, however, 
into pity. '‘But you can’t live here alone forever.” 

“One only has to live for a day at a time, not 
forever,” she smiled. “Don’t think that I am 
hasty or unreasonable. I have gone over every- 
thing again and again, and again. For hours and 
hours I lie awake at night, thinking, thinking, 
thinking. And I can trace Julia Farwell’s treach- 
ery and falseness to me through every day of three 
years — since she stood within that hall and gave 
me the deed to Glen Haven, with a smile and a 
caress! Just so would she give a glass of poison 
to an enemy. It is her way — to strike in the dark. 
She meant to kill me in the world’s esteem and 
in the eyes of Douglas — and she did it. But she is 
nothing to me. It is not for her that I grieve.” 
Margy’s voice trembled and her eyes filled. 

“I know — I know, dear.” His guarded look 
changed to an expression full of gentle understand- 
ing. 

She went on brokenly. “And if my husband’s 
love for me — and mine for him — cannot stand be- 
tween me and this thing — nothing else shall, not 
even you, Robert.” 

A hard lump in Robert’s throat choked him. It 
was the first real glimpse she had given him of the 

[389] 


Cfte €5trcn0t6 

angfuish and despair that was in her heart, since 
her worst pain had stung her into silence. His 
suggestions, however, met an inflexible will that 
neither bent nor parried. Quiet, unobtrusive, she 
neither asserted herself in advance or retreat, but 
held her own against all invasion. 

She opened one of the letters in her lap, glanced 
over it and handed it to him. ‘‘That’s good, isn’t 
it?” It was a check of fourteen dollars from the 
Graydon florist. “And there’s more to come, you 
know.” 

The second letter held her attention for some 
minutes. She read it over several times. It bore 
a Western postmark: was a pointed inquiry as to 
whether a water front home site could be bought 
on the Glen Haven property. Margy pondered, then 
she passed the letter to Robert. When he had read 
it, she asked: 

“Couldn’t I sell that strip of land over there, 
across the creek? It’s water front, and a lovely 
site for a home. We’ve never used it for anything 
— it wouldn’t be missed.” 

“Don’t do anything rash, Margy,” he cautioned. 
“Values have gone up amazingly.” 

She was silent a moment. “I would do almost 
anything for nine thousand dollars.” 

He shot a glance at her and she looked away, but 
he understood. 

“There’s my diamond necklace, you know,” she 
spoke unfalteringly, “and some boarders once told 
Aunt Nancy that there was a thousand dollars in 
those old laces. I have thought of many things — 

[390] 


a>f tfie mtnk 

of the mahogany and porcelain. I’ll sell anything 
to get nine thousand dollars ! And I want to get it 
— quick.” 

She paused a moment, then turned impulsively 
toward him. ^'Robert, write this man for me as my 
agent, and offer him that place. There are thirty 
acres over there. It’s never been cleared ; and there 
are nice trees, too. Would it be too absurd to tell 
him that he could have it for nine thousand? It 
seems a ridiculous price for it.” 

Robert contemplated the matter seriously. “If 
you say so I will see what I can do. And in the 
meantime, what are you going to do?” 

“Do?” she repeated with a smile. Her voice, 
which had trembled, now rang out clear as a bell. 
“What should I do? You have no idea, Robert, 
how beautifully we manage — Mammy and I. I am 
happier, really, than I have been in months. Every- 
body has been so good. Uncle Lee brought over 
a cow for us the second day after we came, and 
Mammy managed to get some hens and we have all 
the eggs and milk and butter that we need. And 
there are lots of little chickens coming on. There 
are always green things in the fields and garden. 
In the Summer there will be fruit and berries. 
Don’t worry about us.” 

Robert had been kicking the heel of his shoe 
through the deep soggy dead leaves that lay under 
the new growth of grass. He was thinking, with 
what aching hearts Aunt Susie and Uncle Lee had 
watched over Margy from Beech wood, coming 
every day, inventing one excuse after another, in 

[391], 


Cfie ©trengti) 

order to make sure that all was well with her. They 
saw that she was troubled and disheartened, but 
the seal of silence was not broken between them. 
After the first week her husband’s name was rarely 
spoken. Margy never alluded to her intimate life; 
she withdrew herself into a reserve that closed over 
her like a visor But she gradually seemed to be- 
come happy with a strange peace. If she shed 
tears they were on her pillow at night. She entered 
upon a phase of existence that was not without its 
compensations for her — but at best it was a life of 
loneliness. 

After the boat leaves is about the only time dur- 
ing the day that I am lazy — like this,” she smiled. 
^‘The mornings are always rushed to gather the 
flowers and get them off. I don’t have time to do 
much thinking, except at night, when I cannot sleep 
— sometimes.” 

There was a silence. 

“Wouldn’t you like to have Louise come and 
stay with you here for a while?” he asked. 

Margy slowly shook her head. “N — no — I have 
little Preston and baby; I don’t want any one. I 
am not unhappy.” 

Robert was forced to acknowledge that she had 
a glow of youth and health about her that held no 
savor of morbid brooding. She had grown strong 
and well, living in the open air and sunshine, in her 
own place. Her body was firm and mature, as it 
had molded itself for the finer, sterner purposes of 
life. She had loved and suffered, he thought, with 
his gaze upon her, and from both love and suffer- 

[392], 


S)f tfte mtnk 

ing she had gained a fullness of nature which is the 
greatest good of either. Her face was still young 
and more beautiful for the storms it had met and 
weathered. Nature is always kind to the young; 
Margy had placed herself safe and secure in the 
the strong arms of this mighty mother, and a mir- 
acle of healing had been wrought. During the first 
weeks, when she had staggered under the cruel 
blow — had he not seen her come gradually into this 
deep serenity, by lying for hours in the warm sun- 
shine, close to the great heart of the earth, that 
was to her now, husband, mother, friend. At last 
her face shone with a transcendent light that defied 
the world to put a blighting shadow upon it. This 
light now lay deep in those unfathomable eyes, as 
she said : 

“The main trouble with me, Robert, is that while 
I have ceased to be young I haven’t learned how to 
be old. I love to play as a child yet, to make 
friends with the squirrels and the rabbits, with the 
nesting birds and creeping wild things.” 

Robert’s heart ached. He felt that she had never 
been dearer to him than she was at that moment. 
He roused himself suddenly and coming behind the 
old bench, bent forward and touched his lips to her 
hair. 

“Then, play, Margy, play,” he said hoarsely. 

He started to go, when suddenly he halted and 
sat down, beside her. 

“Listen, dear. Would you like to do something 
for me? Something that I want very much?” 

“Anything,” she smiled eagerly. 

[393] 


C6e ©trengtft 

‘Then write for Louise to come. Or, better still, 
send me for her,’’ he said. 

There was a pause. They looked into each oth- 
ers eyes. 

“For you — Robert?” she asked at length. 

“Yes— for me.” 

^<And ” 

“I love her,” he finished simply. 

A light of joy broke over Margy’s face. 

“Oh, Robert, Fm so glad — so glad! Yes, dear, 
go for her. She shall come — if she will.” 

He picked up his suit case and started for 
Beechwood. 

Around the corner of the house, under the shade 
of an old apple tree, they came upon Mammy Clo 
standing before an old-fashioned churn, singing in 
a high, cracked voice to the rhythmic motion of 
her arms : 


“Makes me love everybody. 

Makes me love everybody. 

Makes me love everybody. 

And it’s good enough for me; 

’Tis the old-time religion — the old-time religion — 
’Tis the old-time religion. 

And it’s good enough for me.” 

On a folded quilt spread on the grass the baby 
sat contentedly playing with a spray of blooming 
lilacs. Preston lying flat on his stomach, close to 
the base of the tree, was industriously calling for 
doodle-bugs. 


[394] 


SDt tbt meak 

**De butter's cornin’, honey,” Mammy announced 
cheerily, stopping in the midst of her song; ‘‘bring 
me de ladle en de jar.” 

As Margy opened the door of the little white- 
washed dairy her eyes followed Robert as he 
walked slowly down the long, white lane in the 
blazing sunlight. 


[3951 


Cfie ^tccngtj) 


CHAPTER IV 

A CONQUEST 

TT was early evening. The heat of a mid-summer 
sun had blazed upon the city of Graydon dur- 
ing a long still day. The people were slowly arous- 
ing after the afternoon siestas and seeking a breath 
of air. Nurses lazily wheeled their little charges 
along the water front streets and filled the tiny 
parks. Open street cars were crowded with tired 
men and women going to the beaches for a plunge 
overboard and the breezes from the sea. 

The blinds of the Lloyd house on Colonial Arch 
had been tightly closed all day. Louise, unaccus- 
tomed to the continued heat of a Southern summer, 
had reached the point when even mere physical ex- 
ertion was an effort that baffled her New England 
conscience. The sun had just gone down and a 
deep quiet breathed through the oppressive atmos- 
phere, as she stepped out on the front porch and 
raised the lowered screens. Her dress of crisp, 
fresh white was an outward contradiction to the 
suffocating heat that pressed upon her heart. 

^T must have a breath of air,” she spoke aloud 
to herself as she looked up and down the street 

[396] 


€)e tbt MJeak 

and fanned her moist face with a wisp of handker- 
chief. Her eyes finally rested on the little boat 
clubhouse that ran far out into the harbor from the 
foot of a street across the Hague. “I can get it 
there if anywhere/’ she added and walked leisurely 
around the arch. 

There was a breeze stirring, but it came warm 
from the land. The club was deserted. Disap- 
pointed, still fanning herself with her handkerchief, 
she turned to retrace her steps, and as she did so 
came face to face with Robert Norwood. 

Louise stiffened instantly, bowed and made a 
move to pass, but the little platform running along 
the sides of the house was narrow and Robert’s 
large frame blocked the way. 

“Good evening,” was his cheerful greeting. She 
made no answer; he smiled. “Oh, I’ve got you at 
last. You can’t get away^ unless you jump over- 
board.” 

Her face flushed angrily. She drew herself up, 
lips firm and head held high. 

“I do not understand,” she said. His eyes twin- 
kled as he gazed into her flushed face. 

“Don’t you? Well, I will tell you,” he drawled. 
“I’ve tried to get a chance to say a word to you for 
four months. Your resourcefulness in keeping 
away from me has been little short of a miracle. 
You’re never at home, if I call. When you pass me 
on the street, you don’t speak to me, that is you 
don’t see me, and now I’ve got you. Shall we sit 
down and talk it over, or shall we stand here?” 

She smiled bitterly. 

[397] 


Cl)c ^ttengtl) 

‘‘Talk what over?” 

“Well — now — what?” he asked, thrusting a long 
slender cane under his arm. “Not many topics are 
worth the effort in weather like this. I ran four 
blocks to get here in time.” 

The color deepened in her cheeks and her eyes 
flashed a blaze of scorn. 

“You mean to say that you have followed me?” 

He threw out his hand in a deprecating gesture. 

“Call it what you will — followed, shadowed, 
hounded, tricked ; but I got you. There’s a bench 
around in front. Shall we find it?” 

Louise hesitated. Surely it could do no harm. 

“Yes,” she replied primly. She turned and he 
followed her. When they were seated on the 
bench she asked no questions, but waited for him to 
begin. 

“I have just come from Glen Haven,” he an- 
nounced: Louise’s eyes dilated. She had not ex- 
pected so bold a plunge. 

“Indeed!” 

He threw back his head. “It’s my home — ^up 
there. Why shouldn’t I go?” he challenged. “But 
I went principally to see Margy.” 

Louise bounded to her feet and wheeled angrily 
upon him. “If this is what you wish to tell me, I 
refuse to listen to you. I know, as every one knows, 
that you’ve spent most of your time at Glen Haven 
since Margy went there, and that it has been to be 
with her!” 

He crossed his long legs, and seemed to concen- 

[398] 


©f tfte mtuk 

trate his attention upon jamming the cane through 
a wide crack in the boards. 

‘^God knows she needs — somebody.’’ 

There was a seriousness in his voice that caused 
Louise to pause and finally to sit down again. “You 
are the last person that she needs, or should want,” 
she snapped. 

He turned slowly toward her, recrossed his legs 
and threw out an arm along the back of the bench. 

“Would you kindly tell me — why?” he asked. 

“Why?” Louise gasped. “Indeed, why! Have 
you no sense of — decency?” 

“Decency?” His eyes contracted and he looked at 
her narrowly, “it’s an ugly word.” 

“Not half so ugly as the things one has to hear,” 
she retorted. “It is incredible that any one could 
do what you have done, and then flaunt it in my 
face in this shameless manner!” 

“Would you mind telling me what I have done?” 
he inquired in a slow, quiet voice, raising his long 
line of black eyebrows. 

Louise’s senses reeled ; the man’s self-control 
and deceit were amazing. She turned away dis- 
gustedly. 

“It is not for me to tell you anything! You know 
what I mean far better than I do^ — or any one.” 

He did not move ; his eyes were fixed upon her. 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talk- 
ing about.” 

“You haven’t!” Her lips curled and a sharp 
resolution flashed over her face. The crust of New 
England restraint snapped, and her imprisoned 


Cftc ©ttcngtfj 

emotions loosened at last, made her tongue laconic, 
brusque. “Then I will tell you. You are in love 
with Margy Preston, and have been all her life! 
You are responsible for her conduct these years, 
that has led to the breaking up of my brother’s 
home and for the wrecking of his life. It was you 
who induced her to return to Glen Haven! Her 
shameful treatment of Julia was doubtless part of 
your plan. Oh, what is the use to ask me these 
things ! You know what I mean, and now you know 
that I know, and that everybody knows.” 

He quailed before her first charge, then he be- 
came embarrassed and nervous. She paused, but 
he was silent. At last she turned angrily toward 
him. “Deny one word of it if you can or dare! 
You know that you have loved Margy Preston, can 
you deny it?” 

His face grew warm. “Why do you ask such 
questions?” he replied at length with a tinge of 
petulance. “No man tells the truth in reply to 
them.” 

“You have told it to me now,” said Louise 
coldly. The evasion struck her as clumsy and its 
very weight of clumsiness puzzled her. She lifted 
a defiant smile, but her mouth and chin quivered 
in spite of herself. It was the first time he had 
ever seen her angry, and by some occult working 
of his nature the sight filled him with a sense of 
power. 

“Would you mind telling me — who is saying 
these things ?” he asked calmly. 

“Who? Everybody.” 

[ 2100 ] 


De tue mtak 

^|Who first told you?’^ he persisted. 

“It was Julia who told me long” ago,” said Louise 
defiantly. 

He raised himself again. “And you believe it?” 
he asked gently. 

“Of course I believe it. How can I do other- 
wise ?” 

He kept his eyes upon her and saw her color 
deepen. 

“Then — if that is — settled and final,” his words 
seemed to come with studied effort, “there is no 
use for me to ask of you what I had intended.” 

She glanced at him uneasily. “You wished — 
something of me ?” 

“I had intended to ask you to go up to Glen 
Haven and stay with Margy,” he stated bluntly. 

She was silent from sheer surprise. 

“Margy is very lonely,” he went on, intercept- 
ing her before she had time to speak, and tapping 
a projecting knot in the plank floor with the end 
of his cane. “She isn’t exactly unhappy, it seems, 
for she has come into a sort of contentment and 
happiness that is heart-breaking to those of us who 
see her and love her. But since the long, hot days 
have come she isn’t very well, and her strength and 
courage fail her at times. A woman cannot feed 
always upon her own heart. I thought that you 
were fond of Margy, and would want to help her if 
you could.” 

Louise’s mind grew confused. Could mere act- 
ing ever give such appearance of sincerity? She 
tried to think clearly, to discern the truth, to rec- 

[401] 


Ci>e ^ttengtl) 

oncile impressions that were strong in her mind at 
that moment with facts that had before appeared 
irrefutable. 

“I was fond of Margy,” she spoke in low, uncer- 
tain voice, “before I found out all those horrible 
things.” 

“But, Louise,” her name came naturally from his 
lips, “they are not true. There is not one word of 
truth in them.” 

Her face brightened, she reached out her hand 
impulsively, but drew it back and turned away. 

“Of course, you would say that.” 

He saw the action and sat deep in thought for 
some moments. “It means more to me than you 
know; but not in the way that you think. You 
want to be fair, don’t you ?” 
yes.” 

“Then listen. I did love Margy — once. We 
were sweethearts from the time she could first 
walk. As I look back, I love her now, as much as 
I ever did, and I am sure she loves me as much 
as she ever did. The one great love came into her 
life — first. I think it hurt me then. I did not 
know, you see, that — somewhere there must be a 
happiness waiting for me also. For it is a happi- 
ness — to love, even if one can never be loved.” 

He paused. She followed his sentences, but was 
confused by them. A strange excitement passed 
over her. 

“You mean ” she faltered. 

“I mean,” he took up her words, at the same time 

[402] 


©e tbt mtnk 

he turned sharply, facing her, and his strong, 
slender hand closed over the one of hers that was 
fanning with the little handkerchief. “I mean— 
that I do love — but not Margy! For — I love you 
— Louise. I have loved you for months!’' 

His hand held hers with a strong clasp. ‘‘I don’t 
understand,” she said. He drew her toward him. 
and his face came close to hers. “Y — yes you do 
understand. I love you, dear, that’s plain, isn’t it? 
I haven’t dared tell you so — until now ! I was 
— afraid ” 

A great light seemed to be flooding Louise’s soul. 
His confession had been so honest, so straightfor- 
ward, that the whole sweet truth filled her with 
an unbounded joy. 

“Afraid?” she repeated. “You need not be — 
afraid ” 

“No?” He waited eagerly. Rich crimson flooded 
her face and neck. 

“I think — I’ve loved you, too!” 

The next instant she was in his arms, and the 
old, old story was repeated again. The row boats 
tied at the end of the pier lapped lazily and gently 
against the little waves that played about them. 
They were white and dry and parched from the 
long heat of the sun, but now they seemed to rock 
contentedly and gratefully on the cool restless bed. 

The twilight deepened into dusk. A breeze from 
the sea sprung up at last. The waters stirred rest- 
lessly and threw up dioppy waves, but the little row 
boats rocked as contentedly as before. 

[403] 


he asked 


C^c ^trengtft 

‘‘You will come with me to-morrow?” 
at length as they rose to go. 

“I will see Douglas ” she parried. 

“Will you come?” he repeated. 

“Yes.” 


[404]! 


©f tbt J^eafe 


CHAPTER V 

SUCCESS 

needn’t be so biggety. I know my way 
about this house..” 

It was Maggie speaking to the white maid who 
was endeavoring to lead her to Miss Farwell’s sit- 
ting room upstairs. 

‘‘You’ve changed things around, though, ain’t 
you?” she said to Julia as she entered. 

Julia was busy writing, but she put her pen 
aside and looked up with a frown. “Did you wish 
to see me?” she asked. 

“Yes-um. I ain’t gotta place yet.” 

“Have you tried?” 

“Tried? Yes, I tried. Soon as the white ladies 
find out that I bin running the Rebeccah League 
they don’t want me.” 

Julia’s enthusiasm in uplifting the negro race 
had cooled considerably after a residence of three 
years in the South. It was the only one of her 
many philanthropic movements in which she had 
lost interest. 

“I ain’t satisfied at all,” Maggie went on sullen- 
ly. “Three weeks ago you tole me I might as well 

[405] 


Cfie §»tten0:t6 

give Up trying to get anything but a service place, 
and now I can’t get that. I might do better with 
a reference.” 

Miss Farwell was looking longingly toward her 
work on the table. She roused suddenly. 

*'Oh, well, yes ! I can give you that, and will do 
it gladly. I hadn’t thought of it.” 

While she was writing the note Maggie opened 
her green handbag and took out a card case. When 
the note was finished and Miss Farwell passed it 
to her, she put the card case down on the end of 
the table. 

“I forgot all about havin’ that !” 

Julia opened her eyes in astonishment. ‘Why, 
how did you get it?” 

“One day, a long time ago, when I went to see 
you and you wasn’t at home, I borrowed it to use 
that night.” 

Miss Farwell stared. “You borrowed — my card 
case — to use?” 

“It was just a plain little thing and I knew of 
course you wouldn’t care.” 

Julia sprang to her feet — anger, scorn and con- 
tempt shone in her face. Maggie caught the look 
and fell back a step from her. 

“Of all ridiculous — outrageous things I ever 
heard of in my life !” In her excitement her words 
stumbled on each other. “You — come to my rooms 
and borrow my card case! You — ha! ha! You 
didn’t think — I would care! Well, you can know 
now, once and for all, that I do care. Don’t you 


©f tbt meaK 

know that I could have you arrested and put in 
jaiir 

An ashen pallor glowed under Maggie’s dark 
skin. The savage spirit ran like fire through her 
veins. Her teeth clenched and her thick lips 
stretched in a broad grin over them. Julia scarcely 
glanced at her, but sat down at the table again and 
took up her pen. 

‘T am very busy. Good morning!” Maggie 
swallowed hard before she could answer. 

“Good mornin’.” 

An hour later, when Louise had left Robert at 
the steps, she found Julia still deeply engrossed in 
her writing. She paused as she opened the door. 

“You will not disturb me, come in,” Julia said. 
“I am just finishing.” 

There was a smile on her face and her fine eyes 
shone with the intellectual fires reflected from a 
busy brain back of them. 

“Do you ever finish?” Louise asked carelessly 
as she pushed the moist hair from her flushed fore- 
head. 

“I have to work — I love it,” the other woman an- 
swered. “But this is all done — see? It goes to the 
publisher to-morrow.” 

“Then you begin ” 

“Many things!” was the smiling rejoinder. She 
piled the manuscript neatly together and put it 
away. “I shall have to hurry with my bath, but 
I will be ready by the time Douglas comes.” 

“I — I met Robert this evening,” Louise ventured. 
Julia was at the door. She turned sharply. 

[407] 


Clje ^ttcitgt& 


“Robert?” 

“Yes. He brought me a message from Margy. 
She wants me to come to Glen Haven and stay with 
her for a while.” 

Julia’s expression betrayed neither surprise nor 
dismay. “Will you go?” she asked. 

“I think I will go to-morrow.” 

Julia’s sharp eyes searched her face; the wom- 
an’s quick intuition leaped at the truth. 

“And — Robert?” she said slowly. “He goes to- 
morrow, too ?” 

“Yes.” 

“He will stay, too?” 

“Yes.” 

She smiled at Louise’s confusion. “Never mind, 
dear,” she said lightly, “it’s all right.” 

The incident did not disturb Julia seriously. 
Douglas was happy. As she was dressing she 
thought of how she had watched him come back 
slowly and surely into his own. The hold of the 
larger vision of life that she had spread out before 
him was strong enough in itself now, without any 
further intrigue on her part. All that was over! 
How she had hated it! She had been forced to 
resort to such unworthy things. But she had never 
wavered; it had been for a great ideal and it had 
been attained! 

Now they would put these years — this hideous 
gap in the middle of life, behind them forever. 
Through her untiring efforts there had been estab- 
lished once more that sweet companionship, that 
deep communion of souls, of true intellectual mates, 

[408] 


Df tf)e Jiaeafe 

that alone could ever satisfy his life, or hers. The 
future, ah, there her thoughts broke in a delirium 
of joy! She had no fears for the future. In the 
deep of her soul she knew that all her life had been 
but a preparation for this happiness that awaited 
her. Then and only then would she reach the full 
expression of her being. 

At dinner it was she who told Douglas of the 
proposed visit. He evinced some surprise, but Julia 
saw that he was not deeply concerned. Louise’s 
i relief was great, and thus encouraged, she told 
them in a very natural, unembarrassed way that the 
rumors concerning Robert and Margy were untrue, 
that she and Robert had become engaged that aft- 
ernoon. 

'‘Robert says that Margy is not unhappy at all,” 
[she said. 

I “I hope you’ll have a pleasant visit,” Douglas 
remarked casually and the subject dropped. 

The days of Summer slipped by. Louise’s visit 
to Glen Haven prolonged itself. She wrote that 
the country was so lovely in Autumn ; she would re- 
turn doubtless before the winter set in. 

Alfred Mayer’s cynical curiosity had been 
aroused by Louise’s continued absence. He had 
questioned Douglas in a tentative way and had met 
only curt, monosyllabic response. 

One afternoon in the late Fall he dropped in 
upon Julia and found her enjoying a leisure hour 
serving tea to a few casual callers. After they 
had gone he settled back in a chair and smiled a 
long, broad, inscrutible smile. 


Clje ^trengtfi 

‘‘By no power of imagination could I ever pic- 
ture you making tea!” he said. 

“You’ve seen me with your eyes, that’s better,” 
she replied carelessly, pouring a fresh cup and 
passing it to him. 

“Douglas won’t tell me, maybe you will,” he 
said. “Does this visit Louise is making mean an- 
other union of the North and South ?” 

She laughed easily. “I think it means just that, 
why not? Louise is very different from Douglas. 
She will be happy, I think.” She put her elbow on 
the edge of the tea table and rested her chin in her 
hand. 

“Now, you tell me something,” she said slowly. 
“Did you ever see Douglas looking better and hap- 
pier than he is right now?” He met her engaging 
smile with frankness. 

“You know — it seems so,” he replied, dropping 
his voice to a confidential whisper, “and I would 
think he was perfectly happy and contented if — if 
— he weren’t always talking about how happy and 
contented he is.” 

“How absurd!” 

“He’d be a pretty fool not to be satisfied!” 
Mayer went on. “We all make mistakes; he’s a 
lucky dog to have lived out of his as he has!” 

Her face shone. “Douglas is a fine man!” 

“Yes, he is!” He looked at her keenly. “But 
there are some women — they’re precious rare — who 
can nourish to greatness even a little man! But 
Douglas has a big mind — he’s drawn on big lines 

[410] 


©f tbt mtnk 

— there’s nothing little about him. He was really 
annoyed this morning, though.” 

'‘Annoyed ? About what ?” 

He looked at her with raised eyebrows. 

"Of course he feels a certain duty and responsi- 
bility toward — Mrs. Lloyd.” 

"Of course.” 

"And he doesn’t understand how it is that not 
one single check that he has sent her in the last 
eight months has been returned to the bank.” 

She looked at him a moment in perplexity, and 
then her face changed and she laughed softly. 

"I think I can explain that to him. I received a 
check from her some time ago in payment for 
Glen Haven. She has sold part of the property, I 
understand, and has money of her own.” 

"That’s it, is it ? These Southern women have a 
fierce pride, haven’t they?” 

Julia’s keen ear had heard the first click of the 
latch of the front door, and by the time Douglas en- 
tered the room she was standing to greet him. Her 
black eyes sparkled as if with the reflected light 
from the diamonds about her throat. She saw at 
a glance that he rather avoided looking directly 
into her face, and that the annoyance to which 
Mayer had alluded had not yet lifted. 

* With a trivial excuse she left the two men alone 
; for a few minutes. Mayer was quick to take the 
cue and repeated to Douglas what Julia had told 
him in explanation of the missing checks. Appar- 
ently the recital was satisfactory. 

I When Julia re-entered the room they had the aft- 

[411] 


Ciie 

ernoon paper spread open before them. On the 
front sheet was a full-length portrait of Miss Far- 
well, as the author of a new book, ‘‘The Larger 
Vision.” Mayer was reading aloud from a brief 
sketch and review. “It is an appeal for the widen- 
ing of woman’s nature, for her expansion in the in- 
tellectual and civic pursuits of active life. It car- 
ries a revolt against the old order of society, and 
prophesies the beginning of an era of revolution, 
when woman will come into her own !” 

Mayer rose and made an elaborate bow before 
her. “I congratulate you!” he exclaimed. “It is 
an honor to be counted among your friends. It 
must feel good to be able to do great things — eh, 
Douglas ?” 

“Great things can only be accomplished by great 
people,” Douglas replied gallantly turning toward 
the woman, who drank in his words of praise with 
an almost greedy thirst. 

“Sit down, Mayer, you’re not going?” said 
Douglas cordially. “Of course, you’re not going, 
stay to dinner; we’ve nothing to do.” , 

“Oh, yes, you have! You’ve always something 
on hand,” Mayer replied. 

“We would be glad to have you stay and enter 
into our plans for the evening,” Julia answered hos- 
pitably. 

“I — I thank you. I’ll come again.” 

During dinner no allusion was made to the even- 
ing paper and what it contained. Julia knew that 
Douglas was proud of her success, and it was this 
pride of his in her that intoxicated her and always 


SS>f tfte mtnk 

drove her on to larger endeavor. After all, for 
what had she worked, for what had she written 
her book? To reach the ear of the Nation, to 
launch forth a great movement? She knew that 
whatever the seeming purpose, in reality she had 
written to reach the ear and heart of this one man. 
As she reviewed the years of her life, they had all 
been focussed toward this end. Ah, if she had only 
known it, at the one supreme crisis, and not have 
taken a wrong turn in the road then, what years of 
sufYering would have been spared them both. 

In the library, after dinner, while he was en- 
joying his cigar, her whole being seemed aglow 
with intellectual energy. She told him many things 
that he had not known before, of the work that she 
had done in the past four years. She had taken a 
hand in municipal affairs of the city and brought 
about many needed reforms : parks had been made, 
water fronts beautified, unsightly places turned into 
restful retreats. She had revived the Society for 
the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and estab- 
lished a home for working girls. She went through 
the long list — until she came to a last hobby — the 
closing of all stores for one week before Christ- 
mas. 

“This is in the air, of course?” he asked dubi- 
ously. 

“No; it is a fact! Every store in Graydon will 
be closed for one week before Christmas. Who 
needs the spirit of Christmas most — the throngs of 
wealthy shoppers or the tired men and women be- 
hind the counters ? Oh, it was a fight, but we won. 


Cilc SttengtJ) 

Every merchant, big and little, has pledged him- 
self, signed a written contract. What will be the 
result? Everybody will do their shopping earlier, 
that is simple, and the one week before Christmas 
will be a week of rest and joy and peace, as it 
should be!’' 

“That’s fine!” he replied musingly. Suddenly he 
sat up straight. “Say, have you been in the toy 
department at Kerr’s? There’s the finest little gun 
there for a kid you ever saw. It goes off like a can- 
non; but it couldn’t hurt. Wouldn’t ” He 

stopped in sudden confusion, and she finished the 
sentence for him. 

“Wouldn’t Preston like it, you mean?” she asked 
calmly, and with a skillful touch she dismissed the 
subject with: “You will send him a box, of course.” 

The conversation drifted into other channels and 
naturally came back to a discussion of the new 
book. 

“It has made .a big hit,” he said. “The papers 
all have something to say about it.” , 

“Douglas, confess, have you read it?” she asked 
playfully. 

“Why, certainly, I have read it, very carefully, 
all but the last chapter.” 

“Oh, that’s really the best! But, what do you 
think of it — really?” 

“It is a great achievement,” he replied quietly. 
“You always succeed in ever3d:hing. You’ve proven 
every argument. You’ve given woman all possible 
freedom!” He touched his cigar and gazed medi- 

[414] i 


Df tbt mtak 

tatively at the glowing end. possible— -free- 

dom,” he repeated slowly, '‘but one !” 

She started. "What is that?” she asked quickly. 

"Of being — a woman.” 

I Her face flushed. "Oh! Oh! how can you say 
: that!” she defended with glowing enthusiasm. 

■ "You didn’t finish, of course, that’s why you have 
1 that impression. Now, listen, let me read the last 
chapter and you will see.” 

She took up the book and turned over the pages 
hurriedly and began to read. Douglas leaned his 
head against the high back of the chair ana lis- 
tened. 

When she had finished she closed the book with 
iboth hands, held it clasped in front of her and 
looked up with a light of triumph on her face. 

"There! Don’t you see ” 

But his head had drooped to one side and he was 
fast asleep. 


[415] 


Cfie S)tren0tij 


CHAPTER VI 

THE HEARTS SECRET 

next morning at six o’clock found Douglas 
creeping stealthily down the back staircase of 
his home toward the kitchen. He was cross, had 
slept badly and wanted to fix an egg and a cup of 
coffee for himself and get out to work. He did not 
wish to disturb anyone, of course; the methodical 
precision of Julia’s household regime must not be 
upset. 

At the door of the kitchen he ran full tilt against 
Maggie. He stumbled, caught himself and ex- 
claimed: “What — what the devil are you doing 
here?” 

Maggie straightened herself and her thick lips 
curled derisively. 

“I ain’ sneakin’ about nothin’,” she said. “Here’s 
a letter I got from Miss Louise, and I’m a doin’ 
exactly what she tole me to do. She sent me her 
key so I could get in early and catch this mornin’s 
boat. I’m a packin’ what she tole me to, and I’m 
a goin’ to take ’em to her this very day.” 

Douglas stared at her suspiciously. “You — going 
to Glen Haven ?” he asked. 

Maggie secretly revelled in his amazement. 


Df tbt meafe 

‘‘Here’s her letter — see for yourself. I ain’ got no 
time to lose. The boat goes at seven. I’m a goin’ 
to Glen Haven — and I’m agoin’ to stay there!” 

“You’re going to Glen Haven — to liveT he re- 
peated with incredulous amazement. 

“That’s it !” was the prompt reply. “Miss Margy 
• — she needs me, en she says I can come.” 

As she was tying up the bundles, she went on: 
“To tell you the truth, I ain’ never bin ’zactly sat- 
isfied — and everythin’ has got all mixed up. The 
League members — they can’t be depended on fo’ 
nothin’. They take advantage every chance they 
get. The real poor ones blame me ’cause I don’t 
make ’em rich. The better-off ones are jealous and 
envious. I’m agoin’ to bust up the whole business, 
en go back home en stay there! It takes more 
worry and trouble to stay educated than it does to 
git educated in the first place. It’s an awful strain. 
Miss Ma’gy — she’s the best friend I got. She ain’ 
never done a mean thing to nobody — she jest 
couldn’t !” 

She broke off abruptly, but in a moment contin- 
ued in a half-muttering tone. “Miss Farwell — 
well — they ain’ no ’pendence to be put in her, I can 
tell you that ! I want to go barefoot in hot weather 
ef I want to,” she raised her voice again and spoke 
with defiant frankness, “and I can sing as loud as I 
please when I’m washin’ under the trees behind the 
kitchen. I jest love to wash and iron, and they 
can’t nobody beat me at it, neither,” with a chal- 
lenging thrill of conscious pride. 

Douglas raised his eyebrows and drew down the 

[417] 


Cde ^ttengtf) 

comers of his mouth, while his lips scarcely parted 
as he said: “I am curious. Would you mind 
telling me what has caused this amazing change 
of front?” 

ain’ sayin’ all I know!” 

Douglas looked at her with amused contempt and 
disgust. He felt that the incident was but an 
added chapter to his knowledge of the negro’s base 
ingratitude and treachery. So this was the crea- 
ture’s return for Julia’s loyalty and help! It was 
exactly what she might have expected. 

“You speak as though Miss Farwell were your 
enemy and that you hate her.” 

She wheeled toward him and a flash shot from 
her black, beady eyes. 

“Hate her? Oh, Lord! Don’t I hate her ! ! And 
I hate you, too! You Yankees — you don’ know 
nothin’ about us nig — us colored people ! Miss Far- 
well — she’s white and rich.” She threw back her 
head with an exaggerated mimicry of Miss Far- 
well’s manner. “She knows it and everybody 
knows it! She could afford to stoop down as low 
as she wanted to — even to me — so long as I wor- 
shipped her and never dared cross the line her own 
mightiness could overstep, or let a smirch from me 
soil her dainty doin’s! But — she’s showed herself! 
Jest cause I borrowed that little old no-count card- 
case — she flies off and talks about puttin’ me in 
jail!! 

“Huh! Nobody ain’ never ’cused me of stealing 
in my life! Miss Ma’gy now — she knows I bor- 
rows things — but that ain’ nothin’!” 

[418] 


2Df tfie 3i0eafe 

With her bundles gathered in her arms she went 
out and slammed the door behind her. 

Douglas’ mind moved with an uneasy trend. 
Maggie going back to Glen Haven to live ! Well — 
well ! He shrugged his shoulders, dismissed the in- 
cident and went about his task. 

He had not prepared his own breakfast for many 
months. This morning he seemed particularly 
clumsy. He couldn’t find anything that he wanted. 
Everything was in perfect order — in its exact place 
— but he didn’t know the place. At last he took 
the first thing at hand, boiled an egg, then made his 
coffee in the same vessel rather than disturb further 
the shining rows hanging with such mathematical 
precision along the wall back of the range. All 
the time he had a guilty feeling that he must put 
things to rights again and hurry away before the 
maids came downstairs. When he had finished it 
was later than he had thought. He was afraid to 
go through the house for fear of meeting someone, 
so he quickly stepped out on to the back porch and 
closed the door. He walked around the side and 
through the gate. 

Mayer found him seated at his desk, staring at 
the accumulated mail of three days piled up on it. 

‘‘What’s all this doing here?” he asked crossly. 
“Why isn’t this mail attended to?” 

Mayer looked at him quizzically. “Good morn- 
ing,” was his amicable response. “That’s personal 
mail for the head of the firm. Turn to !” 

Douglas hurriedly ran over a few of the letters 
on the top, then threw them aside and wheeled his 

[419] 


Ci)e 

chair around. ‘‘Confound it! What’s the matter 
with me. I can’t work!” 

“Malaria!” his friend replied, with genial humor. 

Douglas sheltered his eyes with his hand and 
looked moodily out of the window. “Mayer,” he 
said, suddenly, “this sort of living doesn’t suit me. 
I’m going to get a divorce !” 

Mayer crossed the room and laid his hand on his 
friend’s shoulder affectionately. “Good! I’m glad 
to hear you say that. When that’s settled you’ll 
feel better.” 

“I certainly will!” 

“You’ve done everything on earth any man could 
do! For you to go any further would make you 
a subject of ridicule!” 

“Exactly !” He sat upright in his chair. “Now 
— look here ! What’s done can’t be undone !” 

“That’s true — if it ain’t original,” Mayer replied. 
Seating himself and crossing his legs, he studied the 
man before him shrewdly. 

Douglas went on as though speaking to himself. 
“I’ve lived through Hell. The hurt was devilish. 
I loved her when we were married — or I thought I 
did. I would always have done the square, clean 
thing by her. I tried to make her happy — it was 
no use! Now it’s all rooted up and done with for- 
ever! A weak woman may think such things can 
be mended — patched over; but they can’t, and a 
man knows they can’t. That’s truth — isn’t it?” 

“You’ve convinced yourself so, at any rate,” was 
the laconic reply. 


[420] 


a>f tbt mtnk 

“I intend to master my life and live in the open 
— do you hear?” he ended defiantly. 

‘‘Your life’s your own.” 

“I’ll make it my own. There’s no use to say any- 
thing more now — eh? You understand?” A some- 
what anxious note crept into the defiant voice as he 
asked the last question. 

Mayer smiled. “Of course!” he assured. 

“Now, I’ll get to work!” and he turned back to 
his desk with a fury of energy and determination. 

For half an hour or more he was absorbed. Sud- 
denly he raised his head and called, “Mayer !” 

The door between the two offices opened quickly 
and the man came back into the room. 

“Well?” he asked. 

Douglas did not look up, but kept his hands busy 
with the papers before him, as he said: “You 
know the toy department at Kerr’s? Go down 
there and get one of those Kersha guns — I’m afraid 
they’ll all be gone.” 

Mayer’s face was inscrutable. Douglas felt his 
surprise, but did not look up. 

“I — Julia suggested that I send a box to the kids 
for Christmas,” he explained. “Preston will like 
that gun. Go on — what in thunder are you stand- 
ing there for!” 

“I — I see!” the man stumbled for a word. “I’ll 
get it — all right !” he quickly added, and was gone. 

The work of the day at the office dragged heav- 
ily. For some reason which he could not explain, 
Douglas was not able to shake himself free from a 
certain feeling that had first come to him with 

[421] 


Cl)e ©trengtft 

alarming force, as he had crept down the back stair- 
case of his home early that morning. It was a 
feeling of unrest and apprehension. 

“It’s a case of nerves, by George!” he exclaimed 
to himself as he threw down the top of his desk 
and started for home two hours earlier than was his 
wont. 

The day had been an exceedingly busy one with 
Julia. At breakfast she had heard of Douglas’ 
early departure. As she sipped her coffee and ate 
her toast alone, she smiled to herself at the remem- 
brance of the incident of last evening. The fact 
that Douglas had gone to sleep while she was read- 
ing the last chapter of her book to him rather hurt 
her at first — then it amused. After all, what alert 
business man of the world is interested in things 
literary ? 

Had she not applied herself to this work these 
years to stifle the deep demands of her own life — 
to simulate a content that she had never felt? 

But for some weeks she had been watching him 
and had seen that he was growing more and more 
restless. The early morning escapade indicated a 
sleepless night probably. Certainly it was assur- 
ance to her that the time for which she had waited 
had come. 

She went through her morning mail hurriedly. It 
all revealed more than ever before the heights of 
honor and success to which she had attained. 

A marked copy of a Washington paper pro- 
claimed the fact that for the first time in the history 
of the nation a woman had been appointed by the 

[422] 


S)f t|)e COeak 

President to serve on a Committee of Investigation 
— and that woman was — herself. Surely this was 
the zenith of achievement and power! 

At another time how she would have gloried in 
it Now she was scarcely moved as she read it. At 
one paragraph she paused and read it again slowly 
aloud. 

‘‘It makes us wonder how a woman with tastes 
so cosmopolitan, with interests so far-reaching, with 
friends the most distinguished in the highest literary 
and social circles of the larger cities, can content 
herself to endure remote, provincial life of the small 
seaport town of Gray don.” 

The woman smiled. What is the mainspring 
upon which life turns? she pondered. It is the 
heart’s secret. There had been fire in her eye, in 
her brain and in her fingers, as they guided her pen, 
but there had been a deeper fire in her heart. All 
the honor, glory, fame that the world can give is 
empty mockery if the one great dream and longing 
of the hungry soul is not satisfied! 

What is this longing ? It is for love — love ! It 
is the primal instinct of nature that no learning can 
smother — that nothing can kill. 

And now she was ready for her own happiness, 
and she knew that it was ready for her. Douglas 
wanted — needed her, now! He needed her — not for 
words alone, and kisses and thrills, but the real need 
for mind and heart and body. She had seen by a 
thousand signs. She would never fail him again! 

She leaned back in her chair before her desk and 
smiled into the face of the grinning Chinese idol on 

[423] 


Cfje S)trcttgtft 

its gaudy pedestal. The papers and letters fell un- 
heeded on the desk and on the floor beside her chair. 
She fell into deep reverie. Her thoughts centered 
around Douglas as they had always done. She re- 
membered how several times recently his mind had 
reverted to Preston. She had expected this, of 
course. But everything would be different now. 
Ah — there were gloriously golden days and years 
ahead of them! As she thought from time to time 
of Margy, her black eyes grew blacker, and the lines 
that were beginning to run from the nostrils to the 
corners of her mouth deepened. In the excess of 
her own joy she felt a certain pity for the girl. And 
yet she knew that her light nature would soon find 
consolation. Margy had, after all, been merely in 
love with love. The instinct for love and mother- 
hood with her was irrespective of any man. 

She roused herself suddenly. She was eager, im- 
patient for the evening — for his return I The time 
had come when she would break the silence between 

them. They would discuss freely the initial steps 
looking toward a divorce, and make definite plans 
for the future. Until then she must keep busy! 
For, with her, she could find rest only in vital ac- 
tion. To try to kill time meant merely to cripple 
it so that it dragged more heavily. 

She would spend the day in cutting herself free ; 
from every outside interest, in every branch and ( 
department of her various activities. 

Douglas would understand! He would know 

then, what part her love for him had held during all 
these years. He would know that the deep secret 

[424] 


iSDf tibe iDQeak 

force that ruled her had been this love for him — a 
love of long duration, of deep intellectual devotion, 
of joyful self-sacrifice just at the point of her 
highest success. 

All during the day her brain and her pen were 
busy, and, when she finally closed her desk in the 
middle of the afternoon, she rang for her maid and 
sent her to mail a pile of many letters. She wanted 
them out of the house at once. Her heart began to 
sing as it had never sung before ! For she had re- 
signed from every interest apart from her own inti- 
mate life — and this life centered only in Douglas ! 


[42S]| 


Cfie 


CHAPTER VII 

A BROKEN PEDESTAL 

first object that met Douglas’ eye as he 
opened the front door was the long-wrapped 
parcel from Kerr’s. He picked it up and went to his 
room upstairs. He closed the door, threw his hat 
and coat on a chair and began to untie the string. 
There was an eagerness in his manner and on his 
face. What a good time the boy would have with 
this gun ! He studied its mechanism a moment, then 
tried to bend it backward, when his hand slipped 
and it fell on the table and slid along the polished 
surface. 

A deep, ugly scratch marked its route. His eyes 
fastened themselves on the place. He saw that it 
ran parallel with another similar mark that had 
grown dim from much polishing. A vague remem- 
brance stirred in his mind, and he bent near the 
table and ran his finger over it. In a moment the 
remembrance became clear. Preston had scratched 
this very place with a tin soldier, and he had 
scolded him, and . A vivid picture flashed sud- 

denly before him: Margy’s gray eyes looked at 
him ; they were large with indignation and hurt won- 

[426] 


t&e meak 

der toward him, but with tenderness and pity for the 
child, as she had gathered him in her arms and 
soothed and comforted him. ‘‘What is our home 
for — but for them?’' she had said. 

He straightened himself with a jerk, lifted the 
gun again and looked about the room for some 
place to put it. He would get together a number 
of things, of course; there was plenty of time — it 
lacked four weeks yet until Christmas. 

He stood thus for some moments ; it seemed diffi- 
cult to know just where to put the toy away. Every- 
thing in the room was in its place^ — arranged in 
most careful order, with an eye to harmony of color 
and effect. 

A strange expression flittered over the man’s face. 
Holding the toy in his hand, he looked curiously 
about him. He could not remember one single 
instance in which the order and precision of Julia’s 
household methods had varied. Everything was 
always — just this way. There was a certain place 
for him to sit — a certain place for him to put the 
ashes from his cigar — a certain place to lay the 
folded evening paper after he had read it. Each 
chair was placed at a particular angle; the shining 
floors reflected the outlines of the mahogany. Two 
fresh white roses bloomed perpetually in a tall vase 
on the top of the table on the right hand corner. 
And one long spray of fern — there was always one 
long spray of fern. Paper — pen — ink — a certain 
book in a certain place. 

The man’s square jaw closed slowly. An incon- 
gruous comparison shaped itself irrelevantly in his 

[427] 


Cftc Sttengtft 

mind : the top of the table, except for the fresh 
scratch, reminded him of a set piece for a funeral. 
He felt an insane impulse to stir things around, to 
upset this immaculate neatness and order. 

When they had changed Margy’s little sitting 
room into a den for himself, the chest of trophies 
had been moved into it. His eyes now fell upon 
this chest, and he opened the lid, and was about 
to place the gun inside when he started back with a 
smothered exclamation. He had discovered for the 
first time the condition of its contents. 

But now the corners of his strong mouth quivered 
suddenly, as he lifted, one by one, the broken and 
torn treasures and placed them on the floor. Finally 
from one corner at the bottom his hand brought 
forth a little tell-tale rusty iron coach. The man 
trembled as he held it. The once valued trophies lay 
around him unnoticed; memories of his boy were 
playing on his heart-strings in a thousand subtle 
harmonies. 

Something in his throat choked him, and he drew 
a sharp breath. The very iron in his own nature 
melted beneath the firm rough touch of this toy. 
He turned it in his hand. The little windows were 
filled with dirt; it was blackened and distorted, as if 
from long contact with the earth. Ah — this was 
the coach Julia had given Preston, and he had buried 
it in the yard. How his big blue eyes had flashed 
defiance when they had tried to make him tell where 
he had hidden this coach. Strange — how the child 
had hated Julia. 

Suddenly, from the street below, a hurdy-gurdy 
[428] 


a)f tbt mtak 

sounded lively, discordant music. Douglas started 
and unconsciously found himself listening to hear 
Margy’s laugh ring through the house, as it had 
done so many times when this same man came on 
his rounds. 

She would always call for Preston, pick him up 
and rush for the front porch. How delighted the 
child used to be, dancing up and down in his 
mother’s arms, while, with little shrieks of delighted 
laughter, she would dance with him. 

He hastily put the things back into the chest, 
placed the gun on the top, closed the lid, and went 
over to the window and stood looking down at the 
gay-colored little monkey waving his cap toward 
him. 

Presently, he heard the front door open, and 
Julia stepped out on the porch. The music stopped. 
The man gathered the monkey in his arms and went 
further around the arch. Julia had ordered him 
away. 

Douglas stepped from the window and began to 
walk slowly back and forth. Now and then his 
eyes travelled through the open doorway into the 
bed-room beyond, where little coquettish pink roses 
ran riot over the satin-damask furnishings. 

Down the smooth white counterpane of the bed 
the figure of his girl-wife slowly traced itself, as 
she had lain there, pale and trembling, when they 
had placed their first born in her arms — the agony 
of travail forgotten, the light of happiness shining 
in her eyes — her little white hands resting helplessly 
by her side. The oneness of the three of them had 

[429] 


Cfte ^trengtb 

been drawn together in that little circle of life that 
it had seemed no power could ever separate. And 
yet 

A quiver passed through the man’s frame, relax- 
ing the tightened nerves. A piteous, dazed look 
crept into his face. His mind, clear and logical, 
was beginning to move along a straight, white line. 
The phantom of unrest that had stood on the 
threshold was now assuming clear, visible shape. 

In the rooms below Julia was waiting. She had 
dressed herself that evening with unusual care, and 
had been content with the vision that had looked 
back at her from her mirror. It was a being, vital 
and strong — a superb woman, in the full flush and 
glory of mature womanhood. 

She passed swiftly through the rooms; here and 
there rearranging a chair, pulling the shades and 
flashing on the lights. 

She seemed the very incarnation of vital force, 
in the flowing measure of her walk, in the free, de- 
fiant movement of her arms, in the ample lines of 
her throat and bosom, which melted gradually into 
the low curve of her hips. 

At last she surveyed with critical eye the rich 
coloring of books and flowers, the soft, restful rugs, 
the subdued splendor of the crimson tapestries. 

Before a long mirror she scanned again with mer- 
ciless eyes her face and form, and turned away 
with a smile on her lips. She had heard Douglas 
come in and go upstairs, and it was hard for her 
to contain her impatience. 

At the first sound of the organ in the street she 

[430] 


m tbt JOeaft 

frowned, threw a shawl over her bare shoulders, 
and went directly to the porch and told the man to 
move on. 

After he had gone she stood looking across the 
harbor, her jewelled hand resting lightly on the iron 
railing. There were signs of a storm in the West- 
ern sky. The low sun was obscured ; only through 
rifts of dark clouds a soft, mellow glow gleamed 
over the cold waters. 

Across the harbor the lights of the Naval Hos- 
pital in Yarmouth twinkled through the trees. Be- 
tween an opening in the heavy foliage Julia saw 
little white slabs that marked the graves of the Con- 
federates shining in the eerie light. They were ar- 
ranged in long, straight, regular rows as a military 
parade. A local story flashed into her mind that 
had thrilled and awed her when she had first heard 
it told by an old veteran with the mystic drawl and 
fire of the true Southerner. When the dead sol- 
diers were to be brought home from the battle of 
Santiago, grave-diggers worked day and night, dig- 
ging a hundred and sixty openings. On the day 
before the expected arrival of the transport a young 
physician went over the ground carefully inspecting 
each grave. In a loosened heap of red clay he 
picked up a human skull. He turned it in his hand 
and examined it curiously. From the side of one 
temple he pulled out a long, rusty nail. He wrapped 
the nail in his kerchief. He knew that the place had 
once been part of the yard of an old crumbling man- 
sion that stood back from the road across the way. 
He went directly to the house and was admitted into 

[431] 


C6e Strength 

the presence of a bent, white-haired, trembling old 
man. The physician walked toward him, and, tak- 
ing the nail from his pocket, held it out before his 
face and said: “Have you ever seen this nail be- 
fore ?” The old man threw up his hands, gave one 
wild, despairing shriek and fell in a lifeless heap on 
the floor. 

The mystery was never solved. Julia shuddered. 
How these Southerners revel in tales of horror, she 
thought. They feed their imagination upon them! 
How glad she was that the time had come for her 
to return to cool reasoning and sane living among 
her own people. 

She came back into the library ; she stood still and 
listened. Now she heard overhead a slow, meas- 
ured step, back and forth, the length of the room. 
How restless he was ! 

Ah I — she could not wait any longer. She would 
ask him to come to her at once 1 She sat down at 
the table and lifted the receiver to her ear. 

Before she had had time to speak, however, she 
heard his deep voice calling to Central. The two 
’phones were on the same line, she knew. She 
started to hang up, when suddenly she heard him 
exclaim : 

“That you, Mayer? I’m going to Glen Haven — 
do you hear? Yes, to-night. Now — listen to me.” 

He did not give the man time to reply. “Get 
me a tugboat — understand? I don’t care what it 
costs. Have it ready in an hour. Bring your ma- 
chine here — now — at once! Understand?” 

“What — do — you — want,” the man stammered. 

[432] 


tfie mtnk 

“I want — my wife and my babies/’ the voice 
choked. ‘‘Charter me a tug — have it ready in an 
hour. Bring your machine — ^here — now !” 

-What— in ” 

“Do you hear me ? Do you know what I said ?” 

“Y-yes.” 

-Well— do it!” 

The receiver dropped from the woman’s hand. In 
an instant she had rushed from the room, up the 
staircase, and was standing before him. 

“Douglas — you cannot mean ” she gasped, 

but stopped short at the sight of his face. 

He raised his level, steel-blue eyes and looked 
steadily at her. Quick as the flash of an eye, in the 
shock of surprise and horror on her convulsed face, 
he read her guilt. His eyes clung to hers, and 
through the look that betrayed her he saw deep into 
the woman’s soul. 

“I am going to Glen Haven,” he replied simply. 
He was smiling, but she staggered under the cold 
fury and contempt stamped on every feature of his 
face. She tried to speak, but the words would not 
come. Her great black eyes followed him in pite- 
ous appeal as he turned away, but he never so much 
as glanced toward her again. He picked up his hat 
and cane. She knew that he was suffering, and 
she also knew that in that suffering she held no 
place or part now. He had forgotten her. 

At the door, however, he paused a moment and 
said with a careless courtesy : 

“I am much obliged to you for all you have done 
for me. Sorry I — wasn’t worth it.” 

[433] 


Cfte ^tttnstb 

He was gone. The woman looked about her in 
a bewildered way; she was trembling from head to 
foot. She walked back into her own room and fell 
into a chair. 

For a long time she sat there with head partly 
averted, as though she were listening to something 
afar off. It was the voice of Fate, whose challenge 
she had always defied, and before whose decree she 
had never bowed. 

When at last she raised her eyes it was to meet 
the sardonic grin of the idol on her desk — its gaudy 
pedestal glittering under the electric light. She 
sprang to her feet and dashed the thing to the floor, 
and stood gazing dully at the thousand shivered 
fragments — her haggard eyes staring from a white, 
drawn face, whose beauty had crumbled in the hour. 


[434] 


the lOeati: 


CHAPTER VIII 

^ THE SECOND STORM 

[ maze of a late Indian Summer had hung all 

I day over the stripped elm trees and ragged 

I cedars of Glen Haven. 

Margy and Louise had spent the afternoon 
together seated before the wide-open windows of the 
drawing-room. Margy had been taking some first 
lessons in sewing; her painstaking, unaccustomed 
fingers had moved slowly down many tiny seams. 
As dusk approached, she put the mass of white stuff 
on the work-stand by her side, and her 
hands dropped into her lap — ^hands that had grown 
white and thin, with the tracery of blue veins run- 
ning over a transparent surface. 

‘Tve made little progress to-day,’’ she said list- 
lessly. 

Louise glanced toward her. ‘‘Oh, but you are 
learning fast,” she replied, at the same time watch- 
ing her anxiously. She saw a strained look about 
'her eyes and mouth. She left her seat, and, com- 
ing behind Margy’s chair, put her arms around her 
neck and bent over her. 

“Are you quite well, dear?” 

[435] 


Cfie Sitrengtl) 

“Yes, I am well,” she replied, with a smile. 

But it was a relief when Louise left her to go 
downstairs to attend to household tasks. For the 
visor of silence and stoicism that had settled over 
her seemed to be tearing asunder; she felt that its 
last hard band would presently snap! Now and 
then her great gray eyes would become fixed on the 
familiar expanse of water, and a new frightened 
look, as of a hunted animal, terrified at the ap- 
proach of certain danger, leaped into them. Dim 
terrors were creeping into her soul; Margy was 
afraid — at last! 

At first the shock itself had nerved the shy, gentle 
girl into a brave, active woman, ready to fight for 
her home and its happiness — complaining of noth- 
ing, afraid of nothing! Gradually, little baby 
hands had brought healing and love in their touch. 
They were hers by a tie that crime itself could not 
weaken. 

During the past months she had felt a pressing 
necessity upon her to live ; she must live ! She must 
keep her mind calm and her body strong and well; 
somehow, after a while, she could plan. How 
could any life be utterly desolate that held a com- 
pelling need for living? she had asked herself again 
and again. 

But now, even her babies tortured her ! She could 
not look at them that she did not see Douglas’ face 
in their features. At first it brought comfort and 
peace; now it mocked and crushed her! 

“Robert — is he coming this evening?” she asked 
as Louise came back into the room. 

[436] 


Df tfie meab 

Louise pulled the curtain of the window and 
looked down the long lane toward Beechwood. 

“He is coming now,” she replied; “he is just en- 
tering the gate.” 

“Tell him I wish to see him — will you?” Margy 
said, eagerly. “I have something to ask of you — 
both.” 

Louise hurried downstairs and across the lawn 
and met him under the tall cedar tree before he had 
dismounted. He listened to the message in trou- 
bled silence, and hastily looped the rein of his 
horse’s bridle through the iron hoop on the tree. In 
a few moments they were standing together in front 
of Margy. She looked startlingly white and ill 
now; her mouth quivered and her eyes filled with 
tears. But it was only for an instant. 

“What is it, Margy ?” Robert asked, then stopped, 
checked by the look in her gray eyes. She smiled 
reassuringly. 

“You are so good to me! I am not ill! You 
are my friends, you two — the only friends I have 
in the world!” She paused, her lips parted and 
closed, as if she had been about to say something 
hastily and recalled it. They waited a moment, 
watching her face. At length he asked : 

“Is there anything that we can do for you?” 

“Yes — yes^ — that is what I wish to say.” She 
looked up at them appealingly. “I have a request — 
it may be my last — who knows ? I think that you 
love me. I think that you will grant it. So many 
things can occur in such a little time. I want you 
^ — Louise and Robert — to promise me that — that if 

i[437] 


Cfte ©trengtfi 

anything should happen to me — you will be married 
and live here and take care of my babies — will you?” 

Louise dropped on her knees beside her, and with 
a sob threw her arms around her neck. 

‘‘Margy — Margy !” 

“Will you do this for me — will you?” 

She looked steadily from one to the other. It was 
Robert who spoke. 

“We can be married now — to-day — if you say so, 
dear.” 

Margy smiled wanly. Louise held her tighter 
and bent her face close and added: “If it will 
help you — Margy!” 

“Yes — it will help me! And you do not mind?” 

They saw the shrinking of the proud nature in 
acknowledgment of its weakness, and their hearts 
ached with pity. 

“Mind !” Robert laughed lightly and went toward 
the door. ‘But it is getting late,” he said. “I’ll 
hurry to the Court House. ’Phone to Beechwood, 
Margy — I will return at once.” 

Louise walked to the window and looked over- 
head. 

“It is going to rain,” she said trivially. 

Rose-colored clouds, delicate and silky, floated 
swiftly across the blue sky, driven by a sullen loom 
of rolling blackness, which emerged from the ho- 
rizon in the West, and was spreading swiftly up- 
ward. 

“It is the end of Summer. But that doesn’t 
matter,” Margy replied sadly, “it will not mar your 
happiness — ever! My wedding day was perfect — 

[438] 


S)( tfie iHJeak 

flooded with sunshine, not a cloud in the sky!” 

Later that evening a simple ceremony was per- 
formed in the great hall and Robert and Louise were 
married. There were no guests — no wedding sup- 
per. Margy with the children, Uncle Lee and Aunt 
Susie from Beechwood and Mammy Clo in the 
background, were the witnesses. A few drops of 
rain pattered on the window-panes just as the last 
words were spoken and Aunt Susie and Uncle Lee 
hurried homeward. 

When they had gone, Margy turned toward Rob- 
ert and Louise, an indefinable smile curving her 
lips, with a little nod friendly and sweet, she mount- 
ed the winding staircase and bade them ‘"Good- 
night.” 

It was a gracious act, but Louise felt that it was 
wrong to even think of her own happiness now; 
Margy’s suffering was so great ! The air was close 
and sultry. They arranged chairs back in the shel- 
ter of the hall, with the doors wide open to the 
night, thinking as they did so of the clutch of lone- 
liness at Margy^s heart. How gentle and sweet she 
was! 

In the meantime Margy walked slowly and un- 
certainly to her bed-room, undressed and crept into 
her high-tester bed, and tried to compose herself to 
sleep. But every nerve started into separate wake- 
fulness. She lay still and stared wild-eyed at the 
welcome darkness — her fingers tense, her body shak- 
ing as from a chill. 

She had thought that with the future of her chil- 
dren safe and assured, when this great weight was 

T439T 


Cfie ©trengtl^ 

lifted, she would find peace. But not so! It was 
her own life laid desolate, to which her thoughts 
now turned. Her mind crept back over the years 
since first her baby eyes opened to the world. It 
was in this very room she had been born, and her 
mother had been born before her! The blended 
panoramic procession of the days of childhood, of 
girlhood and quickly merged womanhood passed 
before her. 

But now, the fear that had gnawed at her heart, 
as she had sobbed through the long black hours of so 
many nights, stood before her — a definite, concrete 
fact! Douglas no longer cared! 

*'Oh, God ! Oh, God !” she cried in stifled agony. 

The hard- won peace of mind and purpose was 
suddenly lost in a terror that swept over her. She 
no longer had the courage to gather together the 
fragments of her life and erect for herself and her 
babies a shelter under them. She had been brave 
once — now she was a coward and afraid ! 

The home nest she had tried to build was a hollow 
mockery — a wisp of leaves and straw loosely hung 
together and suspended by the very weak, fragile 
thread of her own poor strength. It was gone now ; 
she could fight no longer. How could she endure 
this life, this torture, this slow martyrdom day by 
day, without hope and without end ! Was there no 
way of escape? 

In the quiet of the room she heard the fingers of 
the pelting rain at the window. She lay crushed 
and white, trying to stifle the agony within her. 
Her nerve and daring were gone. Had she not 

[440] 


©f tbt meaft 

sounded the depths of all human anguish? Ah — ' 
there was one she had been spared! She had not 
yet tasted of the separation and emptiness that 
comes with the death of love. Was that, too, mock- 
ing her now? 

'‘I was born — only to love him!” she sobbed 
aloud. '‘I put my very life’s blood into that love. 
I gave him all I had ! He demanded much — but it 
was my joy, my life! Oh, God!” 

She threw back the light coverlet of the bed and 
came over to the window, opened it wide and knelt 
beside it and gazed unseeingly into the night. She 
pressed her forehead against the woodwork, while 
the rain and hail beat on her face and her lips drew 
in the sharp, bitter air, which the sharper pain at 
her heart rendered necessary for her life ! 

She could hear below her from the hall the sub- 
dued whispering of the lovers, the sighing of the 
wind through the trees on the lawn, and the mur- 
mur of the waves on the beach. 

She leaned out and listened. The night was 
black; the moon and stars were obscured by heavy 
clouds. She watched the sharp lightning play 
across the sky in great forked, blinding flashes, and 
, heard the low, rumbling thunder that rolled continu- 
ously overhead. A small willow tree bent and 
swayed against the wind until it almost touched 
the earth ; she felt curiously akin to it. She saw 
the chimneys of Beechwood rising above the thick 
trees. How beautiful it all was — and it would be 
just as beautiful a hundred years from now! Un- 
consciously, her eyes sought the little graveyard 

’[441] 


Cfte %itrett0tft 

among the cluster of cedars. The gravestones 
stood up stark and white in the flashes of light. She 
wondered if any of the dear dead folk who rested 
there so peacefully now had ever looked upon this 
same scene with such black grief and despair at 
their hearts. She did not think so ! The old child- 
ish, absurd longing to have lived at that time came 
over her again, and she became convulsed in an 
agony of sobs — each one of which seemed to tear 
the life from her. 

Suddenly a strange excitement pervaded through 
her. The sobs ceased. It seemed to her that in the 
swish of the wind she could hear pleading voices 
of the dead calling to her to come and join them — > 
to lie beside them in the cool, sweet earth. Her 
thoughts broke abruptly. The idea grew in mag- 
nitude. Strange, it had not come to her before! 
Her life was over; there was nothing left now! 
Here, in her own place, at Glen Haven, resting se- 
renely, undisturbed by the confusing progress of the 
world, she would find not only a fleeting sanctuary, 
but an eternal peace! She would flee from the 
gnawing pain in her heart to rest in the little grave- 
yard, where the bluebirds build their nests in the 
crepe-myrtle tree, and the mocking birds sing 
through the darkness of the night. 

Rising from her knees with an effort, she struck 
a match, and watched the little flame burn itself out 
in her hand until it touched her finger. The sharp 
pain quickened the fresh impulse that possessed her. 
She groped her way through the darkness to the 
side of the bed and put on her stockings and shoes. 

[442] 


flDf tlie 

Snatching a white wrapper from a chair where she 
remembered having placed it, she hastily slipped it 
over her night-dress, and, holding it tightly clasped 
across her breast, she glided like a soft, gray shadow 
down the back stair-case and through the hall. She 
opened the door very softly, careful to make no 
sound, and sped across the lawn to skirt the beach 
and go through the meadow, always keeping under 
cover from the two in the front hall. 

It was a storm of wind and rain and hail, and 
at first she revelled in its buffeting. In the meadow 
she could not see the little path, so she felt her way 
stumblingly through the sodden grass and the jimp- 
son weeds which the rain had beaten down» Un- 
expectedly, she came upon a covey of sea-gulls that 
had found shelter in the high grass. Without warn- 
ing, they rose around her in a great, deafening roar ; 
it seemed as if they would almost lift her off her 
feet and carry her away. Her wet garments clung 
to her, flapping in the high wind, but she plodded 
on. 

It was in just such a storm, she remembered, when 
Robert had rescued her and Douglas — some thou- 
sand years ago! She had been happy then. It 
would have been best had they perished — locked in 
each other’s arms ! But — even now — would she not 
be nearer him in the spirit world than in the awful 
world of reality, where separation was widening be- 
tween them and he was forever lost to her. In her 
highly excited, morbid state of mind, all true per- 
ceptions were lost. This one idea became a blind, 
driving madness of desire ; to sever once for all con- 

[443] 


Cfie %>tttnsth 

^nection with material things, and find in death an 
everlasting rest and reunion with her love ! 

She reached the graveyard at last, and wandered 
in and out among the stones. Under the crepe- 
myrtle tree it seemed to her that she could see crim- 
son blossoms strewn over the blackened pine nee- 
dles, like drops of sprinkled blood. But, while she 
had been unhappy, she was now happy again 1 She 
had felt herself deserted; the sense of desolation 
has vanished! She suddenly understood why she 
did not feel alone. It was odd, but her mother’s 
arms seemed about her, and all the dear ghosts that 
had peopled her world of childish fancy hovered 
around her! She could feel the pressure of their 
warm hands on her wet hair and through her cold, 
soaked garments. She felt no great surprise — only 
a gentle penetrating thrill of warmth and pleasure. 

She began to look about her. Her eyes fell on 
a solitary boat, rocking against the end of the little 
pier around the bend of the creek. She could see it 
tossing wildly; the means to accomplish her purpose 
was suddenly clear to her. She would get into this 
boat and drift out to sea — it would be easy then! 

She made her way back to the gravel path and 
from utter weariness sat down in the high swaying 
grass to rest a moment. She started up cold and 
trembling. She must hurry on or her strength 
would desert her! At last she clutched the lower 
step of the old stile and steadied herself by it. She 
mounted slowly and painfully and stood a moment 
on the top. The wind came whipping and flicking 

[444] 


tfte mtuk 

about her from the wild, tossing wastes, and her 
glistening eyes turned toward the water. 

Ah — it came to her, a rush, a dull roar, like a 
crest on a wave — the soft crooning, the great 
mother song of the sea! She opened her arms to 
it and a smile lit up her face. 

Suddenly her foot slipped and she plunged for- 
ward. It seemed to her that she was going down 
— down into a bottomless void. For an instant, a 
dark flash of terror tore its way through her 
clouded consciousness, but a drowsy peace and 
warmth followed; with a sigh of relief she grate- 
fully let herself sink deep into it and lay quite still. 

Douglas stood at the extreme bow of the little 
black tug as it pointed its sharp nose into South 
River and around the bend. He held with both 
hands to the brass railing, while the wind beat in 
his face and the waves dashed over him and across 
the deck. His eyes were strained toward the turrets 
and chimneys of Glen Haven; the gaunt, blackened 
headstones of the little graveyard were scarcely less 
dark and grim and silent. 

Suddenly a great blinding flash of forked light- 
ning sped across the sky above him; he staggered 
back, but watched with a terrible calmness as it 
seemed to point its finger of fire to a little white- 
robed figure that stood poised against the blackened 
sky. The man reeled ; he drew his hands across his 
eyes and waited. In a second instant’s flash he saw 
the little figure totter and fall. 

,[445] 


CIbe 

“My God! My God!’’ 

He lurched with the boat as it plowed through 
the boiling waters, but finally made his way to the 
pilot’s cabin and directed the course to the little pier 
up the creek. 

With the aid of the rowboat, he sprang to shore 
and climbed frantically across the space until he 
reached the stile, where he found her. He lifted 
her tenderly in his arms and bore her to the house. 


[446] 


ffl)t tfte mtak 


CHAPTER IX 

THE LARGER VISION 

sum more wood on the fire? Gee — it's 
^ ^ a turnin' cole outdoors !" 

Maggie piled pieces of wood from her overloaded 
arms into the wood-box by the side of the wide open 
fireplace in Margy's room. She stood rubbing her 
hands before the blaze. 

‘'Anything I can do fer you?" she asked uncer- 
tainly of Margy, who lay back in the big chintz- 
covered chair, gazing out the window at little flur- 
ries of snow that swept now and then against the 
glass. She turned her head toward the girl and 
smiled. 

“No, thank you, Maggie. You've been so good! 
You’re always doing something for me." 

“Don' you want me to bring the lights in?" 

“No, no — ^not yet. Idove the fire glow," she re- 
plied. 

“I got the gentleman’s room all ready. Pity he 
couldn’t let a body know he was cornin',” she said. 

The smile lingered on Margy's lips as she watched 
Maggie turn back the sheets of the baby’s crib and 
brush up the hearth. 


[447] 


Cfie %>tttnstb 

‘‘You fixed it nicely, did you, Maggie — and have 
a warm fire? This house will be a change from 
the steam heat Mr. Mayer is used to.” 

“Ah, it’s all right. I did it all— just like you tole 
me. I hear ’em getting up from supper, so I’ll go 
on. Sure you don’t want nothin’?” 

For many weeks Margy had lingered between life 
and death. Douglas never left her; he watched 
over and cared for her as tenderly as a woman. 
And slowly, day by day, he saw her come back to 
strength and love. He felt that time alone was 
needed now to heal, and in God’s mercy time was 
given. 

Preston ran upstairs ahead of the others and 
straight to his mother’s side, and burrowed his head 
against her lap. 

“I know someone who’s sleepy,” said Margy, rest- 
ing her hand on his curls. 

“No — no — not sleepy,” he replied. He sat down 
on the rug and began to play with his toys. 

“So — you’re going to live here ?” asked Mayer, as 
they all came into the room. Douglas pulled a stool 
over close to Margy and sat down. 

“We shall live here always,” he asserted, taking 
her hand between both of his. “This shall be 
Margy’s home.” 

Margy smiled. “I feel now that I shall never 
want to go — even to Graydon — but of course I 
will,” said she. 

“You’ll have to — sometimes,” interposed Robert, 
who stood with his back to the fire and his hands 
behind him. 


[448] 


iSDf tbt Wtak 

‘"Why?” she asked. 

“To vote,” was the prompt reply. “Don’t you 
Icnow that all you women will have the ballot soon?” 

Margy laughed softly. 

“I don’t want it. I haven’t time to bother with 
it. I don’t know anything about it and I don’t 
want to.” 

Mayer snorted. “Now — that’s just what I say. 
The ballot! What good will it do? If a woman’s 
married and happy she has no use for it, and if she 
isn’t married and happy all the voting in Christen- 
dom won’t make her so! Nothing on this earth 
will make a woman contented — but one thing.” 

“And what is that?” they exclaimed in chorus. 

“Being a woman !” 

“But all women can’t marry,” objected Douise. 

“Keep Her a woman by George, whether she mar- 
ries or not,” he replied stubbornlv. 

Just then Mammy came in with the baby bundled 
in her little night-clothes. She tucked her into the 
crib. As she started out again, Robert, Louise and 
Maver followed downstairs. 

When they had gone, Douglas drew Margy to her 
feet, sat down in the chair in which she had been 
sitting and held her on his lap.- Preston had fallen 
asleep : his little body lay curled on the rug at their 
side, his fat, sturdy hands clasped tightly around 
the new gun. The baby’s pink sleeping face was 
turned toward them from the old cradle just behind 
Douglas’ chair. 

Margy snuggled into his arms and nestled there, 
and there snuggled deep down into the man’s heart 

[449] 


Cfie ©ttengtj) ot tfie 

a great peace and joy. He knew what it was and 
he knew why it was — and his soul breathed a prayer 
of thankfulness. 

“You look like you might be seeing things, Doug- 
las,” she spoke at last, with her hand against his 
face in the old sweet caress. 

“I am.” 

The hand patted his cheek gently. 

“What is it?” she asked. 

His arms tightened about her and he drew her 
close against him. She could feel the strong beat 
of his heart under her cheek. 

“It js a vision, dear. Look with me into the 
blaze of logs.” 

She turned her head slightly so that her eyes could 
look with his into the fire. The man glanced at the 
child asleep on the rug and at the cradle behind him ; 
then, gazing with her into the fire, he said : 

“I am seeing a vision of — of days and months 
and years ! It is a — little vision, a very little vision, 
Margy — no bigger than this soft circle of light the 
blaze of logs throws over us — around this old 
hearthstone. It is a vision, my darling, as clear as 
the tear of a baby, as old as life itself and as big as 
the heart of God. It- is a vision of — home!” 

His answer and his earnestness puzzled Margy, 
but she rested in his arms, content and satisfied. 


THE END. 

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